Skip to main content

Full text of "Golden Fleece V 01n 01 ( 1938 10)"

See other formats 


Popular  Photography  is  packed  with  brilliant 
features  and  unusual  pictures  by  outstanding  author 
ities.  Articles  too,  on  how-to-make-it  and  how-to-do-it 


On  Sale  at  your  Newsstand  or  Camera  Store 


ANSWERS  ALL  QUESTIONS  ABOUT  PHOTOGRAPHY 


HISTORICAL  ADVENTURE  MAGAZINE 


OCTOBER  1938  Vol.  1  No,  1. 


LONG  NOVELETTES 

ROMAN  HOLIDAY . by  Talbot  Mundy  2 

An  Epic  Tale  of  Homans,  Christians — and  Lions — in  the  Reign  at  Mad  Caligula. 
Illustrated  by  Harold  S.  Delay 

WHALES'  WAY . by  Bertrand  L.  ShurUeif  62 

Rival  Whalers  Battle  lor  Love  and  Command  When  the  South  Seas  Are  Young. 
Illustrated  by  Harold  S,  Delay 

SHORT  STORIES 

COASTS  OF  CHANCE . by  H.  Bedford-Jones  44 

I— Evening  at  the  Black  Bull 

Roving  Eye  ol  Petty  Robber  Baron  In  17th  Century  Italy  Changes  Course  of  History 
and  World  Commerce.  Illustrated  by  Jay  Jackson 

ROSEBUD  JOE . . by  Anthony  Rud  110 

Indiana  and  Wild  Horse*  Complicate  a  Difficult  Situation.  Illustrated  by  James  Carr 

THE  HERO . . by  Hcd  G.  Vermes  120 

Grandpa  p's  Memory  Wasn't  Perfect  But  He  Knew  a  Hero. 

FACT  ARTICLE 

AN  AMERICAN  MANDARIN . . by  Allen  P.  Wescott  126 

An  American  Soldier  of  Fortune  in  the  Taiping  Rebellion. 

DEPARTMENTS 

TOOLS  OF  DEATH — Illustrated  by  Jan  Janecek . . .  43 

THE  ROUND  TABLE . . . .  128 


COVER  DESIGN 

Painted  in  oils  by  Harold  S  Delay  lor  "Roman  Holiday1* 


A.  J.  Goalie  r,  Jr.  ASSOCIATE  EDITORS  J.  H.  Bellamy 


Published  monthly  by  Sun  Publications.  Executive  and  Editorial  Offices*  Rand  McNally  Bldg,,  SIB  S. 
Clark  St.,  Chicago  Ill.  Single  copy  price  3Dc.  Yearly  subscriptions  in  the  United  States  12.00  per  year. 
Foreign  Postage  $1.00  a  year  extra.  Application  for  Second  Glass  Entry  pending  at  the  Post  Office  at 
Chicago,  111*  under  the  Act  of  March  3,  1879.  Title  Registration  applied  for  at  U.  S.  Patent  Office. 
Notice  to  authors— When  submitting  manuscripts,  kindly  enclose  stamped  and  self-addressed  envelope 
for  their  return,  if  found  unavailable*  Although  care  wilt  be  exercised  in  handling  unsolicited  manu* 
scripts,  the  publishers  cannot  accept  responsibility  for  their  return*  **»*t*;p  imo. 


CHAPTER  I 
"I  was  free  born  in  Judea” 

IMON  UNOCULUS  sat  at  the  gate. 
He  restrained  himself.  Life  was 
risky  in  Rome,  where  the  emperor 
was  bestially  crazy,  which  was  bad 
enough;  but  his  ministers  were  bestially 
sane,  which  was  much  worse.  However,  a 
man  could  be  safely  obscure  in  Rome; 
but,  out  here  in  the  suburbs,  where  the 
great  estates  lay  boundary  on  boundary 


and  the  rich  had  locked  their  back  gates 
to  prevent  espionage,  not  even  a  modest 
tradesman's  life  was  safe  from  one  hour 
to  another. 

“1  wish  to  see  the  steward,  and  I  only 
wish  to  buy  skins,”  he  repeated. 

"I  don’t  believe  you,”  said  Boas.  He 
kept  the  gate,  his  qualification  for  the  job 
being  a  knack  of  insolence  toward  the 
wrong  people  and  obsequious  servility  to¬ 
ward  the  right  ones.  He  lolled  on  a  mar¬ 
ble  bench  beneath  the  stucco  arch  and, 

2 


by 

TALBOT 

MUNDY 

Illustrated  by 
Harold  Delay 


CHAPTER  I 
*7  was  free  born  in  Judea/' 

I  MON  UNOCULUS  sat  at  the  gate. 
He  restrained  himself.  Life  was 
risky  in  Rome,  where  the  emperor 
was  bestially  crazy,  which  was  bad 
enough ;  but  his  ministers  were  bestially 
sane,  which  was  much  worse.  However,  a 
man  could  be  safely  obscure  in  Rome; 
but,  out  here  in  the  suburbs,  where  the 
great  estates  lay  boundary  on  boundary 


and  the  rich  had  locked  their  back  gates 
to  prevent  espionage,  not  even  a  modest 
tradesman's  life  was  safe  from  one  hour 
to  another* 

4*l  wish  to  see  the  steward,  and  I  only 
wish  to  buy  skins,"  he  repeated. 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  said  Boas.  He 
kept  the  gate*  his  qualification  for  the  job 
being  a  knack  of  insolence  toward  the 
wrong  people  and  obsequious  servility  to¬ 
ward  the  right  ones.  He  lolled  on  a  mar¬ 
ble  bench  beneath  the  stucco  arch  and. 


with  the  ferrule  of  an  ivory-handled  less  important  slaves  might  sweep  it  away 
stick,  lazily  drew  patterns  in  the  dust  that  at  his  command. 

kept  on  covering  the  tiles  however  often  "I  am  an  honest  man,”  Simon  insisted. 

3 


with  the  ferrule  of  an  ivory-handled  less  important  slaves  might  sweep  it  away 
stick,  lazily  drew  patterns  in  the  dust  that  at  his  command. 

kept  on  covering  the  tiles  however  often  “I  am  an  honest  man,”  Simon  insisted. 

3 


4 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


“I  seek  leave  from  the  steward  to  show 
my  dressed  leopard-skins  to  your  master 
Fastidius  FI  arcus.  I  sell  cheap,  and  I 
buy  raw  hides,  skins,  pelts  and  castoff 
clothing  at  good  prices.” 

"You  look  like  a  Jew  to  me,”  said  Boas. 

“  T  AM  a  Roman  citizen.  I  was  free 

J.  born  in  Judea.” 

"Much  good  may  that  do  you,”  Boas 
retorted.  “Jews  are  Christians.  Only 
yesterday  I  saw  a  slave  beaten  to  death 
for  being  a  Christian — and  serves  the  fool 
right.  I  myself  overheard  him  saying  that 
one  man  is  as  good  as  another.  I  suppose 
you  rate  yourself  as  good  as  Caesar.” 

Julius  Verres  Vulpes  overhead  that.  As 
a  member  of  the  Equestrian  order  he  was 
entitled  to  display  himself  on  horseback ; 
but  as  a  matter  of  convenience  he  was  be¬ 
ing  carried  in  his  much  more  comfortable 
litter  by  eight  matched  Egyptian  slaves 
— to  dine  with  Fastidius  Flaccus.  Vulpes 
was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  overlook 
moral  turpitude.  His  huge  belly  shook 
with  indignation.  He  put  himself  to  the 
trouble  of  turning  his  fat-jowled  face  to 
summon  the  four  slave-gladiators,  without 
whom  he  never  ventured  beyond  the  walls 
of  his  own  villa. 

"Seize  me  that  infamous  Jew !”  he  com¬ 
manded.  “Seize  him,  I  say !  Cudgel  him ! 
I  heard  him  say  he  is  as  good  as  Caesar  I 
I  say,  I  heard  him.  Hercules  !  My  ears 
are  split  by  his  abominable  words!  Is  a 
patrician's  gate  a  meeting  place  for  Chris¬ 
tians?  It  is  time  these  Christians  were 
dealt  with  as  a  public  danger.  Cudgel 
him !” 

The  leopard-skin  cloaked  gladiators  ran 
to  obey;  but  before  they  could  get  near 
Simon  they  had  to  scatter  to  avoid  the 
horse  of  Vergilius  Cleandcr,  who  cantered 
up  with  an  armed  attendant  running  be¬ 
side  him.  Simon  appealed  to  him  instant¬ 
ly,  clutching  the  narrow  purple  border  of 


Cleatider’s  tunic,  although  the  attendant 
tried  to  prevent  that. 

"Most  illustrious  Cleandcr!  Just  and 
generous  Cleander!  You  remember  me? 
I  am  Simon,  who  buys  hides  from  your 
honor’s  steward.” 

“Yes,  I  know  you.  What  is  it,  Vulpes  ? 
Usurping  the  rights  of  magistrates,  as 
usual  ?  However,  it  so  happens  I  protect 
this  man.  Now  what  about  it,  Vulpes?” 

“Oh,  if  I  had  known  he  was  one  of 
your  boon  companions,”  Vulpes  sneered, 
his  big  jowls  blue  with  anger,  “J  would 
have  invited  him  into  my  litter !  Open  me 
that  gate,  fellow!  Is  Julius  Verres  Vul¬ 
pes  to  be  kept  waiting  while  Vergilius  Ge- 
ander  gossips  with  Caesar’s  enemies?” 

THE  opened  gate  revealed  a  tiled 
walk,  framed  in  the  pastel  hues  of 
flowers.  It  was  lined  with  statuary  plun¬ 
dered  from  the  groves  of  Greece  in  Sulla's 
day.  Beyond  a  well  spaced  group  of 
shade-trees  the  wall  of  a  great  house  stood 
silhouetted  against  a  blood-red  sunset. 
Vergilius  Cleander  lingered  and  spoke 
with  Simon. 

“Most  illustrious  Cleander,  business  is 
terrible  in  Rome.  They  are  slaying  no 
more  animals  in  the  arena.  It  is  said  that  a 
dozen  recent  shipments  of  lions  and  leop¬ 
ards  have  been  lost  in  a  storm  at  sea. 
So  they  send  in  only  unarmed  victims 
against  the  few  mean  animals  that  are 
left ;  and  because  meat  is  dear,  Caesar 
has  ordered  them  to  be  fed  on  the  flesh 
of  the  victims,  which  is  economical  in  one 
sense  only,  since  it  makes  the  pelts  worth¬ 
less.  So  now  is  the  time  to  buy  good 
ones  before  the  price  goes  higher.  My 
artificers  have  dressed  a  hundred  leopard- 
skins,  all  slain  in  the  animals’  prime.  I 
have  them  with  me,  at  the  inn.” 

“That  inn  is  a  horrible  place,”  said  Cle¬ 
ander. 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


5 


“True.  But  I  must  lodge  my  porters 
somewhere.” 

“Very  well.  But  let  them  first  carry 
your  bales  to  my  house.  My  steward  will 
give  you  a  place  to  sleep,  and  in  the  morn¬ 
ing  I  will  see  what  you  have  to  offer.” 

Cleander  left  his  horse  outside  the  gate 
in  charge  of  his  attendant  and  walked  up 
the  path  to  the  house.  He  was  not  par¬ 
ticularly  respectful  of  his  wealthy  host, 
and  he  was  too  contemptuous  of  men  like 
Vulpes  to  permit  himself  even  to  seem  to 
imitate  them.  So  he  walked.  One  half 
of  him  loved  luxury,  devouring  beauty 
with  discerning  eyes;  the  other,  more 
stoical  half  of  his  nature  mocked  not 
only  luxury  but  men  who  cultivated  it, 
himself  included.  He  knew  he  was  good 
looking,  because  he  had  so  often  been 
flattered  about  it ;  hut  the  knowledge  failed 
to  interest  him.  He  was  athletic  and  in 


the  pink  of  condition  because  he  despised 
effeminacy.  He  was  perfectly  turned  out, 
and  rode  the  best  horse  on  the  country¬ 
side,  because  he  could  not  endure  less  than 
the  best ;  but  he  was  inconsistent  enough 
to  loathe  the  airs  and  graces  of  the  newly 
rich.  Cleander  himself  was  newly  poor, 
for  the  third  or  fourth  time;  he  was  so 
extravagant  that  he  could  not  keep 
money,  no  matter  how  his  steward  plead¬ 
ed  and  economized ;  and  he  vras  so  con¬ 
temptuous  of  money  that  it  seemed  to 
flow  to  him  of  its  own  accord  and  beg 
to  be  allowed  to  refill  empty  coffers. 

Unmarried  at  thirty,  he  had  never  per¬ 
suaded  himself  that  marriage  was  desir¬ 
able,  or  even  tolerable ;  he  considered  the 
modern  Roman  women  vulgar,  graceless 
and  Immodest.  They  had  broken  with 
the  old  conventions  and  ideals,  so  he  went 
them  one  better  and  was  devoted  to  a 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


6 

slave  named  Marcia,  whom  he  had  bought 
because  she  could  play  stringed  instru¬ 
ments  and  sing  the  songs  he  wrote  when 
he  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  pass 
the  time.  Her  beauty  and  artistic  talent 
had  made  him  fall  deeply  in  love  with  her. 
He  was  amused,  too,  by  the  naively  op¬ 
timistic  notions  of  eternal  life  that  she  had 
learned  from  a  Jew  named  Paulus. 

HOWEVER,  Marcia’s  charms  did  not 
prevent  him  from  enjoying  the  re¬ 
ception  in  Fastidius  Flaceus'  vestibule. 
There  was  the  usual  swarm  of  slaves  to 
wipe  his  sandals  and  offer  him  scented 
water  for  his  hands;  but  there  were  two 
most  sensually  charming  slave-girls  one 
of  whom  crowned  him  with  a  chaplet  of 
flowers,  while  the  other  handed  liim  a 
small  crystal  goblet  full  of  the  sharp  wine 
that  arouses  appetite.  He  did  not  mind 
Fastidius  Flaccus  doing  that  kind  of 
thing.  Flaccus  was  a  patrician,  although 
a  man  of  scant  personality,  who  tried  to 
compensate  for  that  lack  by  lavish  hos¬ 
pitality.  The  girls  might  be  rather  out¬ 
rageous,  but  as  a  foretaste  of  an  evening’s 
entertainment  they  were  beyond  criti¬ 
cism.  It  was  such  upstarts  as  Vulpes  that 
Cicander  could  not  tolerate — Vulpes  who 
was  so  rich  that  few  men  dared  to  defy 
him,  and  who  had  had  the  insolence  to  try 
to  buy  Oleander's  small  estate  in  order  to 
add  it  to  his  own,  which  was  growing  con¬ 
stantly. 

There  were  seven  guests.  Vulpes  had 
the  seat  of  honor  at  his  host’s  right  hand ; 
Oleander's  couch  was  at  the  middle  of  the 
table,  on  the  left  hand  side.  It  was  an¬ 
noying  to  have  to  sit  facing  Vulpes ;  one 
could  not  look  at  one’s  host  without  being 
offended  by  the  sight  of  Vulpes*  gluttony, 
nor  speak  to  one’s  host  without  seeming 
to  bespeak  Vulpes  also.  Even  the  bou¬ 
quet  and  the  flavor  of  the  wine  were 
ruined  for  Geander  by  the  sight  of  Vul¬ 


pes  swilling  the  precious  stuff  as  if  it 
were  nothing  wonderful.  And  for  the 
same  reason  he  could  not  enjoy  the  danc¬ 
ing  girls,  who  had  been  sent  from  Rome 
by  a  contractor.  They  were  marvelously 
trained;  they  knew  every  sensuous  and 
suggestive  trick,  and  how  to  beautify  it 
with  an  air  of  innocence;  to  Geander 
they  were  vastly  more  attractive  than 
the  wine  or  the  endless  procession  of 
rich  viands,  cooked  by  a  slave  who  was 
said  to  have  been  bought  for  twenty  thou¬ 
sand  sesterces.  But  Vulpes  looked  at 
them  with  gloating  eyes  that  filled  Ge¬ 
ander  with  disgust;  he  could  not  endure 
to  share  even  an  emotion  with  Vulpes. 

So  the  conversation  developed,  before 
long,  into  a  duel  between  them,  encour¬ 
aged  by  the  other  guests,  who  were  afraid 
of  Vulpes  but  well  pleased  to  watch  Cle- 
ander  thrust  at  the  man’s  offensive  purse- 
pride.  And  Fastidius  Flaccus,  though 
irritated,  and  even  alarmed,  was  an  easy¬ 
going  man  who  had  no  notion  how  to  keep 
a  conversation  within  limits.  Vulpes  was 
in  a  mood  to  show  his  statesmanship. 

“I  tell  you,"  he  insisted,  "Christians 
are  a  public  menace.  They  are  most  of 
them  staves  and  the  scrapings  of  debt¬ 
ors’  prisons,  who  have  been  promised  by 
Jews  that  slavery  and  wealth  shall  be 
abolished.  Naturally  slaves  like  the  pros¬ 
pect  of  that."  He  glared  at  Geander. 
"Men  who  have  squandered  their  for¬ 
tunes  are  the  next  to  listen.’’ 

"Poor  fat  Vulpes!"  Geander  sympa¬ 
thized.  "How  that  great  paunch  of  yours 
is  full  of  dreads !” 

‘‘You  will  see,”  Vulpes  insisted;  for 
the  wine  was  taking  hold  of  him,  and  he 
was  showing  off,  too,  for  the  benefit  of 
a  dancing  girl  who  might  be  one  of  Cae¬ 
sar’s  spies,  so  flatteringly  attentive  she 
was.  "There  will  be  another  slave  war. 
Mark  my  prophetic  word.  There  was 
unrest  in  Augustus’  reign.  There  was 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


worse  unrest  under  Tiberius.  Today, 
there  arc  three  or  four  slaves  to  every 
free  man,  and  the  unrest  has  become  con¬ 
spiracy  incited  by  these  Christians.  It 
will  end  by  our  having  to  crucify  a  hun¬ 
dred  thousand  of  them.” 

"Too  much  wealth  and  too  much  glut¬ 
tony  bring  bad  dreams,”  said  Cleander. 
"There  are  not  a  thousand  Christians  in 
all  Rome — not  many  more  than  a  thou¬ 
sand  in  all  Italy.  Of  what  are  you 
afraid?” 

“Of  men  like  you,”  Vulpes  answered. 
"It  is  true  I  have  had  bad  dreams,  but 
such  are  sent  to  us  as  warnings.  I  fear 
for  the  imperium,  and  for  the  life  of 
our  beloved  Caesar.  Caesar  should  be 
warned  against  the  Christians.  And  let 
me  warn  you,  young  man !  The  provinces 
are  safer— do  you  understand  me?” 

"Perfectly.  You  bought  my  debts 
once,  but  I  disappointed  you  by  paying 
them.  So  now  I  am  to  be  scared  into 
flight,  in  order  that  Caesar’s  friend  Vul¬ 
pes  may  be  appointed  custodian  of  my 
estate?”  A  sudden  recklessness  began 
to  riot  in  Cleander ’s  veins.  “Too  com¬ 
plicated,  Vulpes — too  contemptible — too 
stupid.  How  much  is  my  estate  worth?” 

“TT'IVE  hundred  thousand  sesterces,” 

^  Vulpes  answered  promptly.  He 
knew  the  forced  sale  value  of  every  prop¬ 
erty  he  craved  to  own. 

"That  is  about  half  its  value.  How¬ 
ever,  let  die  gods  decide  between  your 
greed  and  my  contempt  for  it.  One 
throw  of  the  dice!  Win,  you  own  my 
house  and  lands.  Lose,  and  you  pay  me 
five  hundred  thousand  sesterces.” 

“Throw  in  Marcia,”  said  Vulpes. 

"Not  for  a  million  sesterces.  Are  you 
afraid  ?” 

"Not  I.  Bring  on  the  dice.  Bear 
witness,  all  of  you:  Cleander’s  house 


7 

and  lands  against  five  hundred  thousand 
sesterces.  Who  shall  throw  first?” 

There  was  argument  about  that,  but 
Fastidius  Flaccus  decided  it,  by  throw¬ 
ing  the  dice  the  gamblers  were  to  use, 
and  the  first  throw  fell  to  Vulpes,  who 
called  on  the  goddess  Venus: 

“I  was  ever  loyal  to  you.  I  have  had 
your  shrine  re-gildcd.  I  will  give  a  neck¬ 
lace  of  choice  jewels  for  your  statue. 
Only  favor  me  against  that  unbeliever!” 

Suddenly  he  threw — two  fives  and  a 
four.  “Not  bad,”  he  said,  but  he  was 
disappointed.  “Beat  that  if  you  can, 
Cleander.” 

Even  the  female  tumbler,  who  was 
dancing  naked  amid  upturned  knives, 
stood  still  while  a  slave  took  the  dice 
to  Cleander.  The  wild  string-music 
ceased.  Cleander  seemed  the  only  per¬ 
son  unconcerned. 

“Two  fives  and  a  four?  Yours,  Vul¬ 
pes,  looks  like  Caligula’s  luck,”  he  re¬ 
marked.  The  emperor  notoriously  cheated 
at  the  game.  “You  will  all  pardon  me 
if  I  examine  the  dice?” 

"They  are  mine.  They  are  new,”  said 
Fastidius  Flaccus.  So  Cleander  waived 
examination —  "unless  Vulpes  gave  them 
to  you?”  he  suggested. 

“Call  on  Christ!”  sneered  Vulpes.  "I 
am  told  your  Marcia  is  a  Christian, 
Hasn’t  she  taught  you  how  to  shake  the 
box?” 

Cleander  showed  exasperating  calm, 
hie  threw  two  sixes  and  a  three,  and 
hardly  glanced  at  them. 

“You  may  draw  me  a  bill  of  exchange 
on  Rome.  I  will  be  waiting  for  it  at 
my  house  tomorrow  morning,  Vulpes.” 

"Double!  I  dare  you  to  double  it! 
One  throw  for  the  doubled  stake.  Venus 
against  your  Christ  again.”  Vulpes  was 
scowling,  but  he  did  his  best  to  imitate 
Cleander’s  coolness. 

“No.  I  call  you  all  to  witness,  I  said 


“Beat  that  if  you  can,  Clean  der.” 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


one  throw.  And  now  I  go  home.  Vulpes 
is  a  poor  loser  and  I  don't  enjoy  his 
lamentations.  However,  I  thank  you, 
Vulpes;  your  immodest  money  will  pay 
my  modest  debts  twice  over.” 

He  waived  aside  protests,  but  he  took 
the  trouble  to  be  courteous  to  his  host, 
who  liked  him  too  well  to  take  serious 
offense  at  his  leaving  a  meal  half  fin¬ 
ished.  Besides,  Flaccus  had  resources. 


As  Oleander  wrapped  his  toga  around  him 
and  stepped  forth  into  the  moonlight, 
Flaccus  whispered  to  a  servant.  Hardly 
a  moment  later,  one  of  Rome’s  least 
innocent  entertainers  threw  her  arm 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


around  Qeander's  shoulder.  She  looked 
lovelier,  because  more  living,  than  the 
statue  of  Leda  bathed  in  moonlight  at 
the  turn  of  the  path,  and  she  was  scented 
with  Egyptian  perfume. 

“Lover,  return  and  love  me  by  and 
by,"  she  whispered.  "I  know  all  the 
elegancies — all  the  subtleties.” 

“Try  them  on  Vulpes,”  he  answered. 
He  shoved  her  away,  and  she  cursed  him 
in  a  low  voice,  with  ingenious  profani¬ 
ties  such  as  Arabs  address  to  stray  dogs. 
She  was  valuable;  she  knew  that  her 
contractor-master  would  protect  her  for 
his  own  sake,  provided  there  were  no 
witnesses  to  convict  her  of  insolence. 
Geander  knew  it,  too,  and,  with  a  twist 
of  his  toga,  shrugged  her  out  of  mind. 

CHAPTER  II 
“/  keep  some  promises 

THERE  was  a  summer-house  in  his 
garden  and  Geander  went  there  in¬ 
stead  of  to  the  house.  He  sat  drinking 
in  the  midnight  silence,  his  eyes  ex¬ 
cited  by  the  beauty  of  the  scene  on  which 
he  had  gazed  a  thousand  times.  He  al¬ 
most  forgot  he  had  offended  Vulpes; 
he  entirely  forgot  his  attendant  Strabo, 
whom  he  had  told  to  go  to  bed  and  who, 
he  knew,  if  he  had  thought  about  it, 
would  be  news  on  the  wing.  Swift  as 
a  bat,  he  would  go  straight  to  the  stew¬ 
ard  Giton  and  regale  him  with  a  gar¬ 
bled  account  of  the  evening’s  events, 
gleaned  piecemeal  from  Flaccus’  servants. 

However,  Geander  was  in  one  of  his 
restlessly  poetic  moods  in  which  noth¬ 
ing  of  that  sort  mattered.  He  was  in 
a  mood  to  watch  the  stars  and  speculate 
on  the  meaning  of  life  and  death.  He 
was  displeased  when  he  saw  Marcia 
coming — displeased,  that  is,  until  the 
beauty  of  her  movement  and  the  almost 


9 

spectral  marvel  of  her  outline  made 
imagination  leap.  He  could  forgive  any¬ 
one  anything  who  could  do  that.  By  the 
time  she  reached  him  he  had  recalled  the 
hours  they  had  spent  in  that  place  to¬ 
gether,  and  he  even  mocked  himself  as 
he  remembered  he  had  never  thought  at 
all  about  the  stars  until  Marcia  sang  a 
hymn  about  them  that  she  had  learned 
from  a  Jew  in  Rome. 

As  his  slave — his  marketable  chattel — 
it  was  not  within  the  scope  of  even  her 
wide  privilege  to  bring  him  down  to 
earth  too  soon.  She  was  not  his  wife. 
She  had  to  yield,  first,  to  his  caresses 
and  to  guide  him,  subtlety  by  subtlety, 
until  in  the  end  he  almost  asked  her 
outright  for  the  words  she  was  bursting 
to  speak. 

“Marcia,  your  eyes  are  lovelier  than 
stars.  Your  body  is  more  beautiful 
than—" 

“Confess,  my  master!  Did  you  even 
notice  I  was  beautiful  until  I  sang  to 
you  one  night,  and  then  you  asked  about 
the  song,  and  I  told  you?  Then  you 
gave  me  leave  to  speak  such  words  as 
those  to  you  at  all  times,  even  though 
they  should  amount  to  reproof,  because, 
you  said,  wisdom  and  beauty  are  one  ?” 

“Oh,  am  I  to  be  scolded  ?” 

“Never!  But  do  you  think  it  just, 
most  generous  Geander,  to  fill  me  with 
such  great  happiness,  so  that  I  love  you 
more  than  all  the  world;  and  then  to 
crown  that  happiness  by  saying  that  I 
make  you  happy;  but  then — on  a  throw 
of  the  dice — to  risk  such  happiness?” 

“Who  told  you,  Marcia?  Have  Vul¬ 
pes  ’  lamentations  fouled  the  midnight  air 
already  ?" 

“Strabo  awoke  Giton,  who  awoke  me. 
Vulpes — ” 

"Hah  !  I  wager  that  malice  is  burn¬ 
ing  that  great  belly  of  his  I” 

“Watch,  Geander,  lest  it  bum  you 


10 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


also.  Is  it  not  the  law,  that  if  anyone's 
possessions  become  forfeited  to  the  em¬ 
peror  for  treason,  the  informer  shall 
receive  one  half?  That  is  how  Vulpcs 
has  grown  rich.” 

"Who  told  you?” 

“Simon  Unoculus.” 

“And  where  did  omniscient  one-eyed 
Simon  get  his  information?” 

“Let  him  speak  for  himself.” 

SHE  was  gone  before  Geander  could 
protest,  and  She  was  back  again  with 
Simon  much  too  soon  for  Simon  not  to 
have  been  waiting  near  at  hand. 

“Most  gracious  Geander — ” 

“You  may  omit  the  list  of  my  alleged 
virtues  for  the  moment,  Simon.  Cut 
short  your  story,  too,  I  pray  you.  What 
is  this  you  have  been  telling  Marcia 
about  Julius  Verrcs  Vulpes?  And  where 
did  you  learn  it?” 

Simon’s  unembarrassment  was  almost 
as  dramatic  as  the  scene  itself.  He  was  a 
veteran  who  had  seen  all  sorts  of  inti¬ 
macies,  and  to  whom  a  love-nest  was 
only  one  more  nineptn  for  the  ball  of 
Jehovah's  hurling. 

“Most  noble  Geander,  I  am  only  a 
poor  tradesman,  but  sometimes  even  the 
poor  can  do  little  favors  for  one  another. 
Those  condemned  to  die  have  hopes  and 
fears  and  hatreds  just  like  anybody  else. 
So  Gaius  Ruber  the  lanista — he  who  has 
charge  of  the  dungeons  and  of  the  send¬ 
ings  into  the  arena — your  honor  knows 
him?” 

“No.  I  have  heard  he  is  popular.” 
“He  is  successful ;  and  like  all  suc¬ 
cessful  men,  he  has  a  system.  Even  I, 
who  deal  in  leopard-pelts,  succeeding 
only  in  a  small  way,  have  a  system.  Gaius 
Ruber  is  successful  because  so  many  of 
his  prisoners  go  forth  splendidly  to  die. 
It  grows  monotonous  if  all  of  them  die 
like  sheep  in  a  shambles ;  the  public  likes 


to  see  some  of  them  die  bravely.  And  I 
must  confess,  it  seems  better  to  me  to 
die  cheerfully  than  miserably.” 

“On  with  your  story,  Simon.  You 
begin  to  bore  me.” 

“Patience,  excellency,  I  am  coming  to 
it.  Why  should  I  waste  your  valuable 
moments  ?  I,  who  buy  the  pelts  of  leop¬ 
ards  that  are  slain  in  the  arena,  keep 
my  peace  with  Gaius  Ruber,  who  at¬ 
tends  to  it  that  the  best  ones  fall  to  my 
share.  Gaius  Ruber  gives  me  access  to 
the  dungeons,  where  men  of  high  rank, 
whom  Caesar  has  degraded  and  con¬ 
demned,  lie  crowded  together  with  com¬ 
mon  criminals.  Some  of  them  are  no 
worse  than  you  and  I,  if  you  will  for¬ 
give  the  comparison ;  and  the  gentler  they 
are,  the  more  they  crave  little  favors, 
down  there  in  the  stinking  darkness.  I 
am  a  good  listener.  And  it  is  easy  to 
promise.  Many  a  victim  has  faced  the 
lions  and  leopards  gallantly  because  he 
thought  he  had  sown  the  seeds  of  ven¬ 
geance  in  my  ears  and  believed  I  would 
inform  against  informers.  Such  tales  I 
have  heard— such  tales— eh-yeh  1” 

“A  contemptible  system,  Simon." 

“Is  it  ?  I  keep  some  promises.  Some 
of  them  send  only  farewell  messages  to 
them  they  love.  But  I  have  heard  tales 
even  against  the  magistrates,  and  against 
the  friends  of  Caesar.  It  so  happens 
that  I  spoke,  in  the  dungeons,  shortly 
before  they  died,  with  Livius  Carfax, 
and  with  Titus  Iturbius  Varro,  and  with 
Coriolanus  Nepos — men  of  high  rank, 
as  your  honor  doubtless  knows,  whom 
Caesar  had  degraded  that  they  might 
be  slain  with  ignominy.  They  were  ac¬ 
cused  of  having  slandered  Caesar;  and 
all  three  told  me  that  their  secret  ac¬ 
cuser  was  Julius  Verres  Vulpcs.  Fur¬ 
thermore,  they  gave  me  information 
against  Vulpes,  thinking  I  would  wreak 
their  vengeance  on  him  in  the  hope  of 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


an  informer's  share  of  the  spoils,  not 
suspecting  that  I  prefer  to  mind  my  own 
business,  as  being  very  much  safer  in 
the  long  run.  It  is  possibly  within  your 
honor's  competence  to  find  out  whether 
Vulpes  came  into  possession  of  the  half 
of  those  three  men’s  estates.” 

GLEANDER  nodded.  “He  is  sup¬ 
posed  to  have  purchased  them.” 
“Yes,”  said  Marcia,  “he  did.  At  the 
price  of  his  soul  he  bought  them.  There 
was  a  man  named  Judas — ” 

“Eh-eh-eh-eh  I"  Simon  plucked  at 
Cleander’s  toga  that  he  had  thrown  over 
Marcia’s  naked  shoulders.  “None  of 
that  talk,  it  is  dangerous;  I  have  seen 
as  many  as  nineteen  Christians  sent  into 
the  arena  in  one  party,  condemned  for 
having  said  that  God  will  deal  with  the 
tax-gatherers.  Caesar’s  spies  have  long 
ears.” 

“Asses’  ears,”  said  Marcia. 

“But  I  was  saying:  Livius  Carfax, 
Titus  Varro  and  Coriolanus  Nepos,  all 
three,  told  me  that  the  cause  of  Vulpes’ 
hatred  of  them  was  merely  some  hot 
words  passed  amid  the  wine  cups.” 

Marcia  stood  with  clenched  hands, 
staring  at  the  stars,  Cleander  wishing  he 
were  a  sculptor  that  he  might  catch  that 
subtly  sensuous  outline  and  record  it. 
Suddenly  she  turned  and  faced  hint. 

“I  am  your  slave,  but  you  have  said 
you  love  me.  And  I  love  you  so,  that  I 
would  rather  die  at  your  hands  than  not 
say  what  I  know.  Beat  me — crucify  me 
if  you  will— but  listen  first." 

“Don’t  be  ridiculous,  Marcia.  You 
may  say  what  you  wish.” 

“Cleander — Vulpes  craves  to  own  this 
villa.  And  he  hates  you.  We  all  know 
it.  Strabo  has  told  us  how  you  won 
from  him  tonight.  But  do  you  think 
that  Vulpes  would  have  risked  his  money 
if  he  had  not  known  that  it  was  no  real 


11 

risk?  What  if  he  has  already  informed 
against  you?  What  if  Caesar’s  lictors 
reach  your  house  before  Vulpes  can  have 
time  to  pay  the  money?  Or  what  if  he 
pays  the  money,  but  the  lictors  come  then  ? 
Is  the  price  too  high?  Suppose  Caesar 
takes  the  money;  and  Vulpes,  for  hav¬ 
ing  informed  against  you,  receives  land, 
house,  slaves  and  furniture?  Will  Vul¬ 
pes  not  have  bought  a  bargain?" 

“This  is  a  nightmare,"  said  Cleander, 
"a  mere  nightmare.”  But  he  was  grow¬ 
ing  thoughtful.  He  remembered  Vul¬ 
pes’  diatribe  against  the  Christians  and 
his  sneer,  at  Flaccus’  front  gate,  about 
talking  with  Caesar’s  enemies. 

MARCIA  bared  her  breast  to  him, 
and  in  the  moonlight  it  looked 
lovelier  than  Grecian  marble.  “If  you 
love  me,  as  I  truly  think  you  do,  Cle¬ 
ander,  slay  me  rather  than  let  Vulpes — " 
“Cover  yourself,  child,  and  don’t  talk 
nonsense.  Let  me  think  a  moment."  He 
got  up  and  began  pacing  the  floor  of  the 
summer-house,  pausing,  each  time  he 
turned,  to  gaze  at  the  shadowy  landscape 
and  the  clouds  reflected  in  the  star-lit 
pond. 

“It  is  too  bad  that  the  Christians  make 
such  trouble  for  us  all,”  said  Simon.  “It 
is  known  that  the  Christians  teach  each 
other  that  Caesar  is  no  god,  though  he 
pretends  he  is  and  invites  the  moon  to 
come  and  share  his  bed.  And  that  makes 
trouble  for  all  Jews,  because  we  think 
the  same,  so  they  accuse  us  of  being 
Christians,  which  we  are  not.” 

“I  am  known  to  be  a  Christian,”  said 
Marcia.  “And  so  are  many  other  of 
your  slaves,  because  I  taught  them.  Have 
you  not  permitted  that,  Cleander?  And 
have  I  not  tried  to  teach  you  also?  If 
you  are  accused,  and  you  deny  you  are 
a  Christian,  they  will  put  all  your  slaves 
to  torture.  And  though  those  of  us  who 


12 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


are  Christians  will  tell  the  truth,  that 
you  arc  not  one,  there  will  be  others, 
who  will  say  what  the  magistrates  wish 
them  to  say,  so  it  will  do  you  no  good.” 

“And  that,”  said  Simon,  "means  the 
dungeons  and  the  lions.”  He  lowered 
his  voice.  “For  me  also,  if  I  am  found 
here.  They  will  accuse  me  also.  Noble 
Cleander,  I  warn  you :  I  am  not  one  who 
can  endure  the  torture.  I  have  seen  a 
black  slave,  with  a  hot  iron  through  his 
foot,  who  refused,  nevertheless,  to 
change  his  testimony;  and  it  was  false 
testimony,  that  he  gave  to  protect  his 
master;  and  though  they  crucified  him 
on  the  Via  Appia  he  never  changed  one 
word  of  it.  But  not  I — nay,  nay — I  have 
not  that  fortitude.” 

“If  you  are  so  afraid,  then  why  not 
go?”  Cleander  asked  him. 

“But  my  leopard  pelts?  I  brought 
them,  as  you  commanded.” 

“Choose  then  between  the  leopards’ 
skins  and  your  own!”  said  Gcander, 
smiling.  "No,  no,  Simon,  I  was  jesting. 
Go  to  the  columbaria.  Tell  my  steward 
Giton  he  is  to  give  you  porters  to  carry 
your  bundles,  and  he  is  also  to  lend  you 
my  four  gladiators  to  protect  you  from 
thieves  until  daylight.  Then  bring  me 
pen  and  ink  and  I  will  write  you  a  pass, 
saying  that  you  travel  on  honest  busi¬ 
ness  ;  nobody  will  question  that.” 

“May  I  live  to  reward  your  kindness!” 
Simon  thrust  his  one  eye  closer  to  Cle- 
ander’s  than  was  good  manners.  “May 
I  live  to  recompense  yout”  Then  he 
vanished  in  the  direction  of  the  “dove¬ 
cote,”  where,  because  he  preferred  a 
contented  household,  Geander’s  slaves 
were  quartered  better  than  some  men’s 
horses.  Even  the  so-called  gladiators, 
whose  real  duty  was  to  keep  their  ath¬ 
letic  master  in  good  physical  condition, 
slept  on  good  straw  pallets  in  a  comfort¬ 
able  hut.  Geander  turned  to  Marcia; 


"Is  there  no  lamp  here?  Can  you 
light  it?  As  soon  as  Simon  brings  pen 
and  ink  I  will  write  your  manumission. 
That  will  save  you  from  Vulpcs  in  any 
event ;  it  will  make  you  legally  free,  even 
if  there  isn’t  time  to  take  you  before 
the  praetor  and  confirm  it.  And  if  there 
is  nothing  in  this  fear  of  Vulpes’  treach¬ 
ery,  no  matter,  since  I  had  intended  to 
set  you  free  on  my  birthday.  It  comes 
a  little  sooner,  that  is  all.” 

“Oh,  Cleander!  If  your  vision  were 
only  as  perfect  as  your  virtue!  Why 
have  I  not  Paufus*  eloquence,  that  I 
might  give  you  faith  in  Paulus'  teach¬ 
ings  of  eternal  life?” 

“Eternal  life,  I  think,  would  be  a  bore,” 
he  answered.  “Even  old  age  is  a  bore. 
Imagine  an  eternity  of  tliat — growing 
older  and  older !  No,  no.  I  enjoy  some 
phases  of  existence,  such  as  loving  you, 
and  being  generous  and  virile.  I  enjoy 
being  just,  or  1  would  certainly  be  un¬ 
just.  And  I  loathe  some  other  phases, 
such  as  breathing  the  same  air  with  swine 
like  Vulpes,  and  saluting  such  an  animal 
as  Caesar,  on  whom  any  man  of  character 
would  sooner  spit.  On  the  whole,  I  be¬ 
lieve  I  will  greet  death  rather  tolerantly 
when  it  comes.  A  moment’s  agony,  per¬ 
haps,  and  after  that,  eternity  of  nothing. 
I  shall  not  even  miss  you,  Marcia ;  there 
will  be  nothing  of  me  left  with  which  to 
miss  you.” 

SIMON  came,  and  with  him,  Giton  and 
the  gladiators,  Giton  fussily  con¬ 
cerned  and  the  gladiators  wide-eyed  with 
curiosity,  their  coppery  bodies  sheening 
in  the  lamp-light.  Cleander  wrote  Si¬ 
mon’s  permit, 

“There  is  nothing  to  worry  about, 
Giton.” 

“Oh,  there  is — there  is  !”  said  Marcia. 
And  that  loosed  Giton's  tongue: 

“Most  generous  master,  if  you  are  ac- 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


13 


cased  of  being  a  Christian,  or  even  of 
favoring  Christians,  they  will  torture  all 
of  us  for  evidence  against  you.” 

Simon  had  grown  speechless;  he  mis¬ 
trusted  the  four  gladiators,  having  had 
lots  of  experience  of  men  of  that  dreaded 
profession.  Even  his  gestures  were  re¬ 
strained,  but  he  frowned  at  Giton  as  at 
a  fool  who  lacked  discretion.  However, 
Giton  had  responsibilities,  which  Simon 
had  not : 

"Is  it  true,”  he  asked,  "that  Lucius 
Vcrres  Vulpes  lost  to  you  five  hundred 
thousand  sesterces,  which  he  is  to  pay 
in  the  morning?” 

"Yes,  true,”  Cleander  answered.  He 
was  busy  writing.  "Is  there  anything 
in  that  to  disturb  you,  of  all  people? 
Haven’t  you  bedeviled  me  for  money  all 
this  past  year  ?  In  the  morning,  you  will 
have  half  a  million  with  which  to  pay 
my  debts  and — by  the  way,  take  care  that 
when  Vulpes  comes  to  pay  me  we  treat 
him  courteously.  I  might  forget  myself 
unless  reminded.” 

"Master !  Must  you  stay  to  meet  him? 
I  can  be  here  to  receive  the  money;  that 
is  a  steward's  duty  ” 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?”  Cle¬ 
ander  had  a  disconcerting  way  of  asking 
that,  although  he  almost  never  took  ad¬ 
vice  when  Giton  gave  it. 

"Go  to  Rome,  master  I  Go  now.  Get 
Caesar's  ear,  before  it  is  too  late.  Go 
now,  and  hreak  the  spokes  of  Vulpes’ 
wheel — before  he  breaks  you,  chariot  and 
all  l" 

“Not  a  bad  thought,  Giton.  Here, 
Marcia  my  dear,  accept  your  manumis¬ 
sion.  Bear  witness,  all  of  you,  that  with 
this  document  I  now  set  Marcia  free. 
Simon,  you  are  a  free  man;  can  you 
write  your  name?  Well,  never  mind; 
bear  witness.  Marcia,  be  f  ree.” 

There  were  formalities— sudden-emo- 
tional — Marcia  on  her  knees  to  kiss  Cle¬ 


ander 's  hands.  The  gladiators  expected 
gifts  from  Marcia’s  peculium,  it  being 
reckoned  wise  to  share  good  fortune  so 
that  when  the  inevitable  day  of  til  luck 
comes  there  may  be  friends  to  share 
that  also.  But  the  manumission  had  been 
unexpected  and  Marcia  had  no  money 
with  her,  so  Cleander  relieved  her  em¬ 
barrassment  at  the  extended  right  hands 
and  the  greedy  grins: 

“Give  them  what  is  customary,  Giton, 
out  of  my  purse.  And  now,  Giton,  for 
once  I  will  take  your  advice,  because  it 
happens  to  agree  with  my  own.  And 
besides,  to  make  that  manumission  ab¬ 
solutely  legal,  I  should  take  Marcia  be¬ 
fore  the  praetor  and  record  it  I  will 
leave  for  Rome  at  daybreak.  Get  me 
together  what  money  I  iiave,  and  pack 
me  enough  clothing  for  a  week  or  ten 
days ;  getting  audience  with  Caesar  is  not 
always  done  in  a  moment” 

“ T~\  O  IT  swiftly,  master — swiftly! 

-L'  Use  bribes,  but  be  economical, 
otherwise  they  will  keep  you  waiting  all 
the  longer,  to  extort  more  bribes.  Brow¬ 
beat  all  the  underlings  and  give  them 
nothing.  Then,  when  you  reach  the  as¬ 
sistant  chamberlain,  make  no  bones  about 
it  but  drive  your  bargain.  Ask  him, 
how  much  ?  And  when  he  tells  you,  offer 
him  about  the  half  of  what  he  demands. 
He  will  be  insulted,  but  he  will  gladly 
compromise  for  two  thirds.  Then  prom¬ 
ise  him  the  other  third— afterwards — 
provided  that  the  audience  goes  well. 
Then  he  will  speak  to  Caesar’s  women, 
who  will  drop  hints,  and  Caesar  will  be 
predisposed  in  your  favor.” 

"Very  well,  Giton.  Simon,  will  you 
wait  and  travel  with  me?” 

“Not  I — not  if  I  can  help  it,  excellent 
Qeander!  1  am  a  poor  man,  who  can  ill 
afford  to  be  seen  with  one  who  is  perhaps 
to  be  accused  of  who  knows  what  I 


14 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


would  be  grateful  for  the  loan  of  the 
gladiators  as  far  as  the  door  of  the  inn, 
and  a  mile  beyond  it.  If  they  awaken 
the  innkeeper  he  will  make  no  trouble 
for  me.  And  when  my  own  porters  take 
over  the  loads,  and  we  march  away  with 
gladiators  guarding  us,  the  robbers  who 
sleep  at  the  inn  will  believe  we  are  well 
protected ;  so  they  will  not  follow.  I  will 
send  the  gladiators  back  a  long  time  be¬ 
fore  daylight.” 

"Very  well,  Simon.  Farewell,  and  be 
prosperous.  Go  and  attend  to  the  pack¬ 
ing,  Giton.  Don't  send  too  many  serv¬ 
ants  with  me;  I  will  stay  at  the  house 
of  Fabius  Arbiter,  who  is  always  hos¬ 
pitable,  even  at  a  moment's  notice,  but 
has  not  much  room  for  an  extra  retinue. 
— And  now,  Marcia — as  a  freed  woman 
— do  you  love  me— or  am  I  —  ?" 

“Cleander,  I  know  not  what  to  think, 
or  say,  or  do!  I  only  know  I  love  you 
with  every  breath  I  breathe.” 

“Make  music  then.  Sing  me  one  of 
those  curious  Christian  hymns.  I  am 
in  a  curious  mood.” 

“We  might  be  overheard.  Are  you 
not  afraid,  Cleander?” 

”1  am  afraid  of  nothing — except,  per¬ 
haps,  of  having  to  bend  my  stiff  neck 
before  Caligula.  Have  you  a  song  that 
makes  such  exercises  seem  becoming  to 
a  man  of  my  temperament  ?” 

CHAPTER  III 

“ Only  men  in  trouble  visit  Rome 

ITON  the  steward  gloomed  and 
VJT  shuddered,  saying  the  omens  were 
unpropitious.  Birds  had  flown  too  low 
at  daybreak.  A  slave  had  smashed  a 
day  lamp. 

“Whip  the  slave,  and  net  the  birds  for 
dinner,”  Cleander  retorted.  If  he  must 
go  and  humble  himself  before  Caligula, 


that  was  no  reason  why  he  should  let 
superstition  trouble  him.  He  had  his 
own  ideas  of  dignity  and  of  what  made 
life  worth  living.  “Get  out  the  Jitter 
for  Marcia.” 

“But  master,  it  is  unlawful  for  a 
freedwoman  to  ride  in  a  litter.  You 
will  only  make  more  trouble  for  your¬ 
self.” 

“A  little  more  won't  matter.  Argue 
with  me,  Giton,  and  I  will  have  her  ride 
to  Rome  on  horseback.” 

Even  Marcia  protested,  but  Cleander 
had  his  own  way,  though  he  would  have 
resented  another  man’s  freedwoman  trav¬ 
eling  like  a  lady  of  rank.  It  was  a 
case  of  inconsistent  obstinacy  that  would 
have  made  him  laugh  if  he  had  really 
thought  about  it.  As  it  was,  it  served 
to  bolster  up  his  recklessness.  He  led 
the  way  on  horseback;  pack-mules  fol¬ 
lowed  with  the  luggage,  and  then  the 
slave-borne  litter  with  its  red  crushed- 
leather  curtains,  guarded  by  four  gladi¬ 
ators,  trudging  two  on  either  hand. 
Thinking  of  arrogant  phrases  with  which 
to  browbeat  the  guard  at  the  city  gate 
if  they  should  dare  to  question  Marcia's 
rank ;  and  what  with  the  glorious 
weather,  and  the  thought  that  Giton 
presently  would  pay  his  debts  with  Vul- 
pes’  money,  Cleander  grew  more  and 
more  cheerful  until  they  reached  the 
execution  place,  at  a  crossroads,  on  ris¬ 
ing  ground  within  a  furlong  of  the  city 
wall.  There  was  a  small  inn  near  by 
where  breakfasted  the  soldiers,  whose 
duty  it  was  to  see  that  no  living  victims 
were  removed  from  the  gibbets.  Only 
a  few  slaves  writhed  in  torment,  al¬ 
though  there  was  nearly  an  acre  of  cru¬ 
cifixes  occupied  by  ravens  waiting  for 
their  meal  of  festered  carrion. 

That  changed  his  mood  again.  As  a 
Roman,  he  was  hardly  squeamish;  and 
he  knew  what  drastic  means  are  some- 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


times  needed  if  a  hundred  thousand  free¬ 
men  are  to  keep  in  subjection  four  times 
their  number  of  slaves.  But  there  was 
something  horribly  contemptiWe  about 
that  shambles.  It  made  him  loathe  life. 
He  was  angry  by  the  time  he  noticed 
Simon  Unoculus  in  the  dust  near  the 
door  of  the  inn.  They  had  beaten  the 
Jew  and  taken  away  his  bales  of  leopard 
skins;  his  porters  were  carrying  water 
to  fill  a  great  clay  cistern  for  the  sol¬ 
diers*  bath. 

"Worshipful  Cleander,  they  refused 
even  to  read  your  honor's  letter.  They 
accused  me  of  being  a  thief,  and  a  run¬ 
away  slave,  and  I  know  not  what  else. 
I  am  beaten  until  my  bones  are  powder." 

So  Cleander  again  earned  Simon's 
gratitude.  There  was  only  a  decurion 
in  charge  of  that  execution  guard — a 
man  of  merely  eight  or  ten  years’  service 
who  had  not  yet  learned  the  sort  of  iron 
insolence  centurions  achieve.  He  wilted 
under  the  flail  of  Cleander’s  vehemence. 
He  even  begged  Simon’s  pardon.  He 
restored  his  loads.  He  paid  his  porters 
for  the  trifle  of  carrying  water.  He 
pressed  wine  on  Simon,  and  a  gift  of 
reeking  cheese  and  too- ripe  olives.  He 
implored  Cleander  not  to  report  him  to 
his  legion  commander.  He  was  voluble, 
penitent;  not  worth  vengeance;  a  mere 
coward  turned  into  a  bully  by  the  sight 
of  writhing  victims.  And  all  Simon  said 
was: 

“Good  Cleander,  may  I  live  to  recom¬ 
pense  you.” 

But  Marcia  used  her  skill  on  Simon’s 
bruises,  so  Simon  had  word  with  her, 
while  Cleander  persuaded  the  decurion 
-to  go  and  cut  the  throats  of  the  cru¬ 
cified  slaves  before  the  sun  should  get 
strong  enough  to  make  their  torment 
unimaginable.  It  was  none  of  G Gan¬ 
der’s  business.  It  was  even  an  act  of 
contempt  of  Roman  law.  Expression  of 


15 

contempt  is  a  luxury  against  which  there 
are  subtly  self -enforcing  penalties  that 
no  man  ever  wrote  into  a  statute  book. 
The  stinking  purlieus  of  the  city  gate 
increased  and  fed  contempt  and  he  was 
primed  now — ready  for  the  dangerous 
gratification  of  insulting  the  guards  at 
the  gate  if  they  should  dare  to  so  much 
as  notice  Marcia. 

BUT  because  Marcia  loved  him,  and 
Simon  had  repaid  kindness  with  a 
little  whispered  advice,  she  deceived 
Cleander.  In  the  crowd  outside  the  gate, 
where  the  rough  guards  bullied  peasants 
and  the  lines  of  laden  slaves  poured  in 
and  out,  she  stepped  down  from  the  lit¬ 
ter  and  walked  behind  it,  through  the 
gate,  on  foot.  Safely  inside  the  city  she 
climbed  in  again,  and  Cleander  never 
knew  he  had  not  successfully  defied  the 
sumptuary  laws  of  Rome. 

His  was  the  disgust  of  a  young  phi¬ 
losopher  who  felt  that  the  most  impor¬ 
tant  city  in  the  world  should  be  a  decent 
place  to  live  in,  but  who  could  not  see 
how  to  make  it  so.  The  narrow  lanes 
resembled  sewers  pouring  streams  of  hu¬ 
man  riff-raff  into  sunlit  spaces  where 
plundered  foreign  marbles  shouldered 
wooden  busts  of  yesterday’s  mob-orators 
and  splendid  buildings  stood  wedged  be¬ 
tween  reeking  tenements.  Yelling  trades¬ 
men  stormed  and  chaffered.  Black  slaves, 
standing  on  barrels,  bellowed  forth  the 
alleged  amusement  to  be  had  in  steneb- 
ing  brothels.  Blood-smeared  butchers, 
shouldering  newly  quartered  beef,  strug¬ 
gled  for  right  of  way  against  tides  of 
laden  slaves  amid  the  booths  of  vege¬ 
table  sellers.  Din — savage  laughter — 
brawling — money  changers,  testing  coin 
by  coin  the  debased,  clipped  currency. 

A  cohort  of  praetorian  guardsmen 
clanked  down -street,  led  by  a  centurion 
who  almost  looked  like  an  old  time  Ro- 


■ 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


16 

man,  save  for  a  sly  uncertainty  about  his 
eyes.  Two  Vestal  Virgins  on  some  un¬ 
imaginable  errand,  preceded  by  lictors 
who  caused  twice  the  commotion  the 
guardsmen  did.  A  tenement  on  fire; 
dogs  and  children  chasing  the  evicted 
rats;  slaves  of  the  municipium,  armed 
with  pikes  and  ladders,  withstanding  all 
attempts  to  save  surrounding  buildings 
while  their  officer  made  his  bargain  with 
the  owners.  A  magistrate's  court,  and 
the  screams  of  a  tortured  witness,  with 
women  and  children  peering  through  the 
narrow  windows  for  a  glimpse  of  some¬ 
one’s  agony,  while  armed  guards  leaned 
on  their  spears  outside  and  joked  with 
one  another. 

Fabius  Arbiter’s  house  at  last,  at  the 
end  of  a  cul-dcsac  near  the  Saepta  Julia, 
fronting  on  a  small  tiled  courtyard  and 
protected  by  a  high  wall.  A  Nubian 
slave  at  the  gate  gave  ample  warning; 
Fabius  Arbiter  came  hurrying  through 
the  vestibule  to  greet  Geander  midway 
of  the  courtyard  and  embrace  him. 

“Welcome,  and  welcome  again.”  He 
took  him  by  the  shoulders.  “But  what 
brings  you?  Only  men  in  trouble  visit 
Rome;  only  criminals,  paupers  and  mad¬ 
men  remain  here.  By  the  Genius  of 
Caesar — that  is  the  only  safe  oath  now¬ 
adays — if  I  could  sell  my  house  for  a 
fair  price,  I  would  look  for  less  undig¬ 
nified  annoyances  in  Gaul  or  Egypt. 
However,  enter.  All  that  I  have  is 
yours.” 

CHAPTER  IV 

“There  is  no  use  in  arguing  with  a  love- 
struck  tnan.“ 

ARBITER’S  was  an  old  fashioned 
house,  partly  altered  and  redeco¬ 
rated,  built  around  a  central  atrium  that 
could  be  protected  by  a  canvas  awning 
drawn  on  ropes.  As  a  young  widower 


of  moderate  means  he  lived  without  much 
regularity  and  his  slaves  showed  the  lack 
of  a  feminine  hand  to  control  them ; 
such  women  as  sometimes  visited  the 
house  were  likelier  than  not  to  loosen 
discipline,  and  the  steward  was  an 
Egyptian  with  Alexandrian  ideas  of  ex¬ 
travagance,  so  that  with  Arbiter,  as  with 
Oeander,  debt  was  a  normal  condition. 
There  were  luxuries,  whether  or  not 
they  were  paid  for. 

They  sprawled  on  couches  in  the 
atrium,  with  a  breakfast  table  between 
them  and  a  wine-slave  in  attendance;  but 
the  slave  was  presently  dismissed  while 
Cleancler  told  his  story. 

“What  a  man  will  not  do  for  a  wom¬ 
an  !”  said  Arbiter.  “And  you  say  Marcia 
is  a  Christian?  At  the  moment  that  is 
your  principal  danger.  We  arc  begin¬ 
ning  to  be  really  disturbed  alxmt  the 
Christians,  because  of  the  risk  of  an¬ 
other  slave  war;  and  Caligula  is  espe¬ 
cially  angry  with  them  because  someone 
told  him  that  the  Christians  say  it  is 
wicked  to  try  to  make  gold  from  arsenic, 
which  is  his  obsession  just  now.  They 
rounded  up  some  Christians  for  him, 
and  he  made  them  swallow  arsenic,  to 
show  him  what  they  could  do  with  it. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  has  equally  mon¬ 
strous  moods  of  an  opposite  sort.  You 
know  the  Grristians  are  supposed  to 
practice  necromancy?  Yes  they  do,  I 
tell  you.  Nine  tenths  of  their  talk  is 
of  raising  the  dead.  Well — when  the 
informers  told  that  to  Caligula,  in  the 
hope  that  for  a  change  he  might  get 
after  the  Christians  and  leave  the  rest 
of  us  to  our  own  devices,  he  disap¬ 
pointed  them.  He  said,  ‘We  will  see  if 
they  can  raise  the  dead.  I  will  give  them 
plenty  of  Romans  to  practice  on.’  There 
is  never  any  guessing  what  surprise 
Caligula  will  spring  next.” 

“Nevertheless,  I  must  have  an  audi- 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


ence  with  him.  How  else  shall  I  fore¬ 
stall  Vulpes?” 

“I  can  get  you  an  audience.  I  stand 
well  with  Caesar’s  chamberlain.  But  re¬ 
member  the  name  Caligula  and  drive  the 
thought  of  Caesar  from  your  mind.  He 
is  not  Caesar.  He  is  a  madman  who 
uses  a  Caesar's  opportunities  and  preys 
off  Roman  cowardice  and  we  are  all 
such  cowards  that  we  can*t  get  rid  of 
him,  and  he  heaps  one  imposition  upon 
another.  He  invites  the  moon  to  sleep 
with  him,  to  say  nothing  of  senators’ 
wives,  whose  husbands  have  to  smile  and 
tell  him  they  are  greatly  honored..  He 
has  set  his  statue  in  the  temples,  next 
to  those  of  the  gods.  He  has  made  his 
horse  a  consul.  If  he  hears  a  man  lias 
money,  his  only  concern  is  how-  to 
confiscate  it.  He  is  money-craay.  Yes, 
I  can  get  you  an  audience,  but — ” 

"How  else  shall  I  protect  myself  from 
Vulpes?” 

“True!  True!  Vulpes  is  a  very  dan¬ 
gerous  informer,  who  has  been  useful  to 
Caligula.  Informers  are  about  the  only 
people  whose  lives  and  possessions  seem 
absolutely  safe.  You  would  better  have 
your  audience,  because  Caligula  may  take 
a  momentary  liking  to  you.  His  likes 
never  last  long;  only  his  dislikes  appear 
permanent.  But  that  won’t  be  enough. 
We  must  use  backstairs  influence  as  well. 
Has  Vulpes  not  an  enemy  or  two?  I 
must  find  out.  I  know  a  woman  who 
might  help  us — Chloe — a  contractors’ 
slave — a  bad  devil  if  ever  there  was  one, 
but  clever;  if  she  is  in  Rome  I  will  have 
her  sent  here.  Now  and  then  she  takes 
part  in  the  palace  orgies.  She  might 
whisper  to  Vulpes’  enemies  that  his  es¬ 
tates  are  well  worth  confiscating.  Per¬ 
haps,  too,  she  will  be  able  to  think  of 
something  else.  We  will  have  to  pay 
her  master  handsomely.  Well,  go  to 
your  room  and  get  some  sleep,  Cleander. 


17 

I  will  send  for  Chloe  and  I  wiH  send 
word,  too,  to  the  praetor’s  office  that  we 
will  call  there  to  manumit  a  slave  on  our 
way  to  the  thermae  this  afternoon.  But 
by  the  way:  warn  Marcia  to  keep  her 
mouth  shut  in  the  praetor’s  office.  My 
man  Ossianus  says  he  saw  a  shc-slave 
manumitted  not  long  since,  and  the  fool 
knelt  down  and  praised  Christ  in  the 
praetor’s  presence.  She  was  crucified, 
of  course.  What  else  could  the  praetor 
do?  Tell  Marcia  to  hold  her  tongue.” 

IN  a  room  where  painted  Fauns  pur¬ 
sued  Nymphs  on  the  stucco  walls  and 
a  voluptuous  looking  Venus  leered  down 
from  the  ceiling,  Cleander  slept  consid¬ 
erably  longer  than  he  had  intended.  He 
was  awakened  by  the  sound  of  wrestling. 
In  the  atrium,  Fabius  Arbiter  was  vainly 
striving  to  put  Cleander’s  gladiator  Spi- 
cillus  on  his  back;  Cleander  watched  his 
chance  and  threw  them  both  into  the 
fountain,  to  save  his  friend  from  the 
embarrassment  of  failure.  They  fooled 
for  a  while.  Then  Cleander  took  wooden 
sword  and  buckler  and  fought  Thrax, 
his  favorite,  promising  the  man  five  ses¬ 
terces  for  every  blow  that  he  could  strike 
home  with  edge  or  point;  but  Thrax 
earned  nothing,  though  they  strove  until 
master  and  man  were  bathed  in  sweat  and 
Arbiter  said  it  was  time  for  the  thermae. 

“The  aediles — asses ! — say  that  to  light 
up  the  baths  after  dusk  might  lead  to 
immorality.  The  result  is,  darkness  sees 
men  and  women  flitting  out  of  the  place 
like  bats  to  go  and  be  immoral  elsewhere. 
What  is  it  that  makes  aediles  idiots? 
And  what  is  immorality?  Don’t  an¬ 
swer,  because  I'm  sure  you  don’t  know. 
Tell  me  something  you  do  know.  How 
did  you  ever  learn  how  to  drub  such  a 
swordsman  as  Thrax?  I  tried  him  be¬ 
fore  I  tried  to  wrestle  with  Spicillus.  I 
can  handle  a  sword  better  than  most  men 


18  GOLDEN 

of  my  age,  but  I  couldn’t  touch  him  and 
he  landed  on  me  as  he  pleased.” 

‘‘Speed,”  Cleander  answered.  “That's 
the  secret  of  it.  I  wish  I  could  put 
such  speed  into  by  business  with  Vulpes. 
Learn  from  the  animals,  Fabius-  A 
quick  blow  is  worth  two  slow  ones.  A 
quick  thrust,  followed  thrice  as  quickly 
by  another,  then  another— Hercules !  I 
grudge  the  time  we  are  to  squander  at 
the  thermae." 

“Ingrate!  In  the  thermae  we  will  do 
your  business.  Let  your  gladiators  fol¬ 
low  us  and  protect  Marcia;  that  girl  is 
too  good  looking.” 

Two  of  Arbiter's  servants  followed 
also.  Suitably  cloaked  to  avoid  atten¬ 
tion,  Marcia  followed  midst  six  men  to 
the  praetor's  office,  where  the  gladiators 
forced  an  opening  through  the  crowd  that 
was  reading  posted  notices  and  clamor¬ 
ing  for  access  to  the  office  that  was 
guarded  by  red-cloaked  lictors.  There 
was  more  business  to  lie  done  by  that  one 
office  than  could  have  been  handled  by 
all  the  offices  in  Rome,  and  there  was  a 
swarm  of  lawyers  who  specialized  in  get¬ 
ting  precedence  for  claims  of  one  sort 
or  another.  However,  Arbiter  had  in¬ 
fluence  enough  to  force  his  way  in  and 
the  ceremony  of  manumission  was  soon 
over.  In  the  presence  of  a  bored  assistant 
of  the  praetor  he  turned  Marcia  around 
three  times,  pushed  her  away  from  him 
and  said,  ‘Go  free,  Marcia,  I  manumit 
you.’  The  assistant  recorded  the  act  in 
a  file,  a  fee  changed  hands,  and  there 
was  a  short  delay  while  Marcia’s  certif¬ 
icate  of  freedom  was  sent  into  another 
room  for  the  praetor’s  signature.  But 
the  delay  was  fraught  with  an  incident 
that  made  Fabius  Arbiter  bite  his  fin¬ 
ger  nails,  although  Geander  thought 
nothing  of  it. 

A  slightly  built,  gray-bearded  Jew  with 
lustrous  eyes  was  led  into  the  room.  His 


FLEECE 

name  was  announced  as  Paulus.  He  was 
chained  to  an  ex-legionary  who  wore  the 
badge  of  the  praetor’s  office,  and  who 
seemed,  not  exactly  afraid  of  his  prisoner, 
but  remarkably  deferent  to  him.  The 
official  showed  impatience  : 

“I  am  tired  of  you,  Paulus.” 

“May  the  Lord  relieve  your  weariness,” 
the  prisoner  answered ;  and  he  had  a  voice 
that  disarmed  irritation.  “But  I  think 
that  neither  you  nor  I  can  be  as  weary 
as  this  good  fellow  must  be  of  the  use¬ 
less  chain  that  makes  him  more  a  prisoner 
than  me,” 

THE  official  fell  hack  on  bureaucratic 
arrogance.  “Such  a  complaint  is 
insolence.  You  arc  fortunate  not  to  be 
held  in  the  dungeon." 

“Fortunate  indeed,"  said  Paulus. 

"I  only  wish  Caesar  would  appoint  a 
day  for  your  trial — and  to  the  lions  with 
you!  Only  Jupiter  himself  could  say 
what  secret  influence  you  have.  A  Chris¬ 
tian — are  you  not  a  Christian?” 

“I  have  made  no  secret  of  it,”  Paulus 
answered. 

“Christians  have  been  crucified  in 
dozens.  They  have  been  thrown  to  the 
lions  in  dozens.  Nevertheless,  you,  who 
are  the  ringleader  of  them  all,  are  al¬ 
lowed  to  wander  where  you  please — " 
"Provided  I  report  here  frequently," 
said  Paulus.  “I  have  wronged  no  man 
by  remarking  that  this  chain  is  even  more 
troublesome  to  the  guard  than  to  me.  I 
will  not  seek  to  escape.  I  came  to  Rome 
because  I  appealed  to  Caesar,  having  that 
right,  being  a  Roman  citizen.  1  will 
await  my  turn  for  Caesar’s  judgment” 
“Meanwhile,  preaching  to  runaway 
slaves  and  criminals  in  catacombs  and 
tombs  and  such-like  hiding  places  T* 

“Do  they  not  need  the  Word  of  the 
Spirit  that  altars  men’s  hearts  and 
minds  ?” 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


"Perverting  them  with  eastern  doc¬ 
trine  that  makes  them  traitors,  worthy 
of  no  other  fate  than  death  in  the  arena 1” 
Paulus  smiled  at  him.  His  eyes,  and 
his  smile,  and  the  confident  calm  of  his 
persuasive  shoulders  were  as  eloquent  as 
his  voice.  “You  say,  they  are  criminals,” 
he  answered.  “Would  your  law,  then, 
spare  them  in  any  event?  Then  do  I 
wrong  them,  or  the  law,  if  I  persuade 
them  of  eternal  life?” 

“Oh,  go  your  way,"  the  official  an¬ 
swered.  “It  is  a  mystery  to  me  that  you 
were  not  tried  and  executed  long  ago. 
No,  I  will  not  remove  the  chain.  I  have 
no  authority  to  do  that.  If  I  might,  I 
would  not.  Go  your  way,” 

He  turned  to  attend  to  the  business 
of  important  citizens  and  Paulus  led  rather 
than  followed  his  custodian  toward  the 
door.  But  on  his  way  Marcia  interrupted 
him.  She  knelt,  and  Paulus  blessed  her, 
touching  her  bowed  head  with  his  right 
hand. 

Outside,  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  hug¬ 
ging  her  certificate  of  freedom,  Marcia 
blessed  Geander,  as  she  had  right  to 
do,  and  as  convention  obliged  that  she 
should.  There  were  no  words  too  ex¬ 
travagant,  nor  any  place  too  public,  for 
the  gratitude  of  a  slave  set  free, 

“Oh  generous  Geander — ” 

However,  Arbiter  interrupted.  “Just 
the  very  thing  I  warned  you  to  beware 
of  !  Justus  Cassius  and  Cornelius  Varro 
were  in  the  praetor’s  office.  They  saw 
her  kneel  to  that  Jew.  Cassius  is  one 
of  Caligula’s  backstairs  panders,  and 
Varro  is  about  the  vilest  spy  in  Rome! 
Get  rid  of  the  woman — tell  her  to  go  and 
hide  before  she  gets  us  all  in  trouble.” 

“She  has  nowhere  to  go,”  said  Geander. 
The  thought  of  losing  sight  of  Marda 
disturbed  him  more  than  danger  did. 

“Nonsense.  Give  the  girl  some  money. 
Give  it  to  her  now— don’t  argue.”  He 


19 

turned  on  Marcia:  "Listen.  Understand 
this:  it  is  the  law  that  no  slave  may  be 
manumitted  to  avoid  her  giving  evidence 
against  her  master.  If  Virgilius  Geander 
should  be  charged  with  an  offense  against 
the  State,  your  manumission  would  be 
canceled  and  you  would  be  tortured,  just 
like  any  other  slave,  for  evidence  against 
him,” 

“I  would  not  give  evidence  against  him. 
I  would  rather  die,”  said  Marcia.  “And 
besides,  he  has  done  no  wrong  to  any¬ 
one.” 

"Who  cares  ?  Let  them  catch  you,  and 
then  see  what  happens!  Hide,  I  tell  you, 
until  we  know  what  Vulpes  has  con¬ 
trived  against  Geander.  When  we  have 
defeated  Vulpes,  come  back.” 

CLEANDER  protested,  but  Arbiter 
stuck  to  his  point  and  Marcia  had 
no  option  but  to  do  what  she  was  told. 
Geander  gave  her  money  and,  in  spite  of 
Arbiter’s  objections,  ordered  two  of  his 
gladiators  to  escort  her  to  whatever  hiding 
place  she  might  decide  on ;  they  were  to 
return  to  Arbiter’s  house  with  news  of 
her  whereabouts,  and  to  take  more  money 
to  her  as  soon  as  she  should  need  it. 

“Dangerous  1  However,  there  is  no  use 
in  arguing  with  a  love-struck  man,  said 
Arbiter.  “I  have  yet  to  hear  of  a  glad¬ 
iator  who  could  keep  a  secret.  In  or  out 
of  the  arena  they  are  good  for  nothing 
except  their  own  grim  trade;  and  they 
would  be  no  good  for  that  unless  the 
penalty  for  flinching  were  worse  than 
the  chances  they  have  to  take.  Your  glad¬ 
iators  follow  Marda — someone  will  fol¬ 
low  and  watch  the  gladiators — wait  and 
see.” 

"I  think  you  are  unduly  nervous,"  said 
Geander. 

“Am  I  ?  Well,  don’t  you  be  nervous  in 
the  thermae.  Flaminius  Glaucus,  Ca¬ 
ligula’s  chamberlain,  will  be  there  and  I 


■ 


■ 


20 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


intend  to  introduce  you  to  him.  He  is 
usually  in  a  vicious  temper  until  after 
he  has  been  scraped  down  with  the  strigil, 
so  let  us  hope  we  catch  him  in  the  tepi¬ 
darium,  well  oiled  and  for  the  time  being 
almost  human.  And  by  the  way,  when 
you  take  off  your  clothes  in  the  cloakroom 
and  the  slave  gives  you  a  token  for  them, 
give  the  blackguard  an  as  for  himself  and 
threaten  him  with  mayhem ;  otherwise  you 
will  get  the  wrong  clothes  back  and  have 
no  remedy.  I  don’t  know  where  they 
find  such  shameless  thieves  as  they  employ 
in  the  thermae  cloakroom." 


CHAPTER  V 

“Chloc  ir  quite  an  experience.,t 

“/"OBSERVE,”  said  Arbiter,  as  they 
v/  threaded  their  way  through  the 
crowd  of  slaves  outside  the  thermae. 
“Everybody's  slaves,  eh?  Everybody’s 
secrets  being  told.  Inside,  the  masters 
who  make  the  scandal  and  the  mistresses 
who  cause  it;  outside,  the  servants  who 
multiply  rumor.  How  long  do  you  think 
it  will  be  before  you  and  JMarcia  are  hot 
news?" 

However,  he  threw  off  gloom  inside 
the  thermae.  Everybody  did.  The  sheer 
physical  comfort  of  leaving  one's  clothes 
in  care  of  the  attendant  and  strolling 
naked  amid  tiled  luxury  where,  at  least 
for  the  moment,  there  were  no  social 
distinctions,  had  a  peculiar  mental  effect 
on  Romans.  The  right  of  entry  was  a 
zealously  guarded  social  privilege,  the 
more  appreciated  since,  once  inside,  all 
were  more  nearly  equal  than  anywhere 
else  in  Rome. 

“I  don’t  know  whether  we  are  wise  or 
not  to  admit  women,"  Arbiter  remarked 
as  they  strolled  into  the  tepidarium  and 
stood  on  the  marble  brink  of  the  plunge. 
Around  all  four  sides  of  the  great  room 


was  a  colonnade,  beneath  which  men  and 
women  strolled  like  gods  and  goddesses, 
the  sheer  grace  of  the  Roman  stride  and 
gesture,  and  the  broken  light  that  filtered 
through  thick  glass  making  even  corpulent 
shapes  look  beautiful.  “It  is  possibly  good 
for  the  women,  since  it  may  make  them 
understand  us  better ;  and  the  act  of  walk¬ 
ing  naked  among  naked  men  obliges  them 
to  practice  modesty.  Nevertheless,  I 
think  I  liked  it  better  when  they  were  not 
admitted." 

Certainly  it  made  for  decency  and  self- 
restraint.  A  man  who  stared,  or  a  woman 
who  appeared  self-conscious  would  have 
been  promptly  excluded  and  never  al¬ 
lowed  to  return.  There  was  a  valuable 
atmosphere  of  mutual  tolerance,  and  of 
comradeship  between  the  sexes,  that  ex¬ 
isted  nowhere  else  in  Rome. 

THEY  plunged,  swam  the  length  of 
the  pool  a  time  or  two,  and  strolled 
into  the  tepidarium,  deciding  to  omit  the 
usual  routine  of  swearing  and  being 
scraped  and  rubbed,  because  Flaminius 
Glaucus  was  in  the  tepidarium,  holding 
a  court  of  his  own  on  a  marble  seat  within 
one  of  the  arched  alcoves.  He  was  being 
flattered  and  regaled  with  gossip,  but 
he  looked  bored,  although  his  crocodilish 
eyes  glanced  with  swift  interest  and  ap¬ 
praisal  at  each  new  arrival.  He  was  an 
athletic  man  himself — or  rather,  had  been, 
and  he  instantly  noticed  Cleander’s  mus¬ 
cular  physique  and  seemed  pleased  when 
Arbiter  came  near  to  introduce  him.  He 
had,  too,  a  marvelous  gift  for  dismissing 
men  who  had  a  perfect  right  to  remain 
where  they  were  if  they  wished;  it  was 
only  a  few  moments  before  he,  Arbiter 
and  Cleander  had  the  alcove  to  them¬ 
selves. 

“How  now.  Arbiter?  Tell  me  about 
your  friend.  He  wants  something,  of 
course,  all  do,  who  get  themselves  intro- 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


21 


duced  to  me.  Tf  he  doesn’t  want  my  post 
as  chamberlain,  such  a  handsome  fellow 
may  have  anything  I  can  do  for  him — 
in  reason — mind  you,  I  said,  in  reason. 
Come  now,  what  does  he  want?" 

“An  audience  with  Caesar.” 

Who  is  he,  you  say?  The  son  of— oh 
yes,  I  remember ;  let  me  write  that  on 
my  tablet.  But  why  an  audience  ?  Caesar 
detests  them,  since  he  has  to  endure  so 
many.  However  much  he  might  other¬ 
wise  like  a  man,  he  always  hates  him  at 
an  audience.  What  does  Cleander  want 
with  Caesar?" 

“Good  standing,  that  is  all,”  said  Ar¬ 
biter.  “How  else  shall  a  man  establish 
his  position?” 

“True.  True.  What  else  lias  he  be¬ 
sides  breeding  and  good  looks  to  recom¬ 
mend  him  ?” 

“He  writes  poems.  I  have  never  read 
them,  but — " 

“Neither  will  Caesar  read  them.  Can 
he  talk  intelligently?  Has  he  humor?” 

“He  can  converse,”  said  Arbiter,  “like 
a  son  of  Aspasia  by  Pericles.” 

“A  very  dangerous  ability!  However, 
he  seems  also  to  have  a  gift  of  silence. 
And  a  new,  good  looking  face — how  long, 
Arbiter,  since  you  were  at  Caesar’s  dinner- 
table?” 

“More  than  a  year.  I  can't  afford  such 
privileges.  The  last  occasion  cost  me 
more  than  two  months’  income  in  gifts  to 
assistant  chamberlains." 

“Assistant  chamberlains  must  live.  You 
should  have  pressed  your  opportunity  and 
reimbursed  yourself  by  means  of  Caesar’s 
favor.  However,  opportunities  recur.  It 
happens  that  two  members  of  the  senate 
lost  their  heads  last  night;  or,  at  least, 
I  suppose  they  lost  them;  they  were  or¬ 
dered  to  be  tortured  first.  'Let  them  feel 
themselves  die,’  said  Caesar.  But  they 
were  not  the  type  of  men  who  can  endure 
prolonged  pain.  And  they  were  fools. 


They  are  not,  perhaps,  worth  mentioning 
except  that  they  serve  to  point  a  moral. 
Did  you  know  them?  Tullius  Faltonius 
and  Lucius  Salinator.” 

“By  sight,”  said  Arbiter.  “Did  not 
Salinator  marry  quite  recently.” 

“Yes,  that  was  the  beginning  of  it. 
Salinator  invited  Caesar  to  the  wedding. 
Caesar  admired  the  wife  and  took  her 
home  with  him;  but  he  did  not  enjoy 
her  much,  she  was  too  readily  complaisant, 
so  he  banished  her  to  one  of  the  islands, 
I  forget  which.  Salinator  thought  he 
had  better  remove  from  Caesar’s  mind 
any  suspicion  that  he  might  be  feeling 
resentful,  so  he  and  his  friend  Faltonius 
sought  an  audience.  They  thought  they 
had  caught  Caesar  in  a  mood  to  be  be¬ 
guiled  by  abject  flattery.” 

“Isn’t  flattery  what  he  demands  ?”  asked 
Arbiter. 

“He  likes  it  subtle.  Faltonius  asked 
him,  would  it  not  be  better  to  abolish  all 
law  than  to  have  to  be  constantly  changing 
it  ?  Caesar  was  silent ;  he  sat  leaning 
on  his  elbow  with  his  right  hand  covering 
his  mouth  and  his  head  moving  slowly 
from  side  to  side,  the  way  he  always  does 
when  his  mood  is  deadly.  However,  that 
fool  Salinator  piped  up:  ‘Let  the  world 
know  that  all  of  us  live  and  manage  our 
affairs  at  Caesar’s  sole  caprice/  Caesar 
smiled  then.  I  knew  what  was  coming. 
T  have  a  caprice  now,’  he  remarked,  and 
he  summoned  the  guards.  ’You  wish  to 
see  me  so  disliked  that  the  Roman  mob 
will  tear  me  into  pieces.  I  will  teach  you 
what  that  feels  like.’  He  followed  them 
out,  to  make  sure  that  slaves  were  not 
substituted  for  them.  That  has  been  done, 
you  know;  they  peel  the  slave's  face  to 
make  it  unrecognizable.  Caesar  enjoyed 
Salinator 's  agony  so  much  that  he  has 
been  in  a  good  mood  ever  since.  I  want 
to  keep  him  in  a  good  mood.” 

“And  the  moral?” 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


22 

“There  are  several.  One  is,  that  if 
Caesar  takes  your  wife  or  your  mistress, 
don’t  try  to  presume  on  the  strength  of 
it.  Ignore  the  incident.  Forget  the 
woman.  Another  is,  never  suggest  to 
Caesar  a  course  of  conduct ;  he  can  think 
of  quite  enough  disturbing  novelties  with¬ 
out  anyone's  assistance.  And  a  third  is, 
that  the  easiest  way  to  arouse  his  suspi¬ 
cion,  which  is  the  same  thing  as  his  deadly 
enmity,  is  to  try  to  avoid  doing  it.  Now 
it  happens  that  those  two  fools  were 
bidden  to  tomorrow’s  banquet.  How 
would  you  two  like  to  take  their  places  ?” 

CLEANDER  and  Arbiter  glanced  at 
each  other — glances  that  did  not  es¬ 
cape  Flaminius  Glaucus,  court  chamber¬ 
lains  being  nothing  if  not  observant.  He 
read,  and  understood  their  hesitation,  so 
he  went  on: 

“Caesar  is  growing  weary  and  suspi¬ 
cious  of  his  present  intimates.  He  is 
secretly  very  nervous  about  plots  against 
his  life.  He  may  take  a  fancy  to  you 
two  youngsters.  Who  knows  ?  So  I  will 
set  down  your  names  now  and  you  shall 
have  your  formal  invitations  in  the  morn¬ 
ing.  I  think  it  is  a  bright  idea ;  you  may 
serve,  so  to  speak,  to  counterbalance  the 
effect  of  one  of  those  dreadful  people 
whom  one  can’t  avoid  inviting  now  and 
then.  There  is  a  man  named — ’’ 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  slave  who 
brought  a  whispered  message  that  sent 
him  hurrying  to  be  dressed  and  gone, 
clutching  his  tablets  and  muttering  impre¬ 
cations. 

“Now,"  exclaimed  Arbiter,  grinning 
wryly,  “we  are  in  for  it.  The  next  thing 
is  to — ” 

He  had  no  time  to  continue  just  then. 
Men  who  had  never  thought  him  worth 
consideration,  and  who  did  not  even  know 
Qeander’s  name,  pressed  forward  to  in¬ 
gratiate  themselves  with  two  such  for- 


tunates  as  had  the  private  ear  of  Caesar’s 
chamberlain.  It  was  hard  work  to  escape 
them  without  making  enemies.  They 
were  followed  to  the  cloakroom.  Three 
men  even  followed  to  the  street  and,  by 
offering  their  company  on  the  way  home 
on  the  excuse  that  the  streets  were  unsafe 
after  dark,  tried  to  get  themselves  invited 
to  Arbiter’s  house  for  the  evening  meal. 

“Thanks,"  said  Arbiter,  “we  have  two 
gladiators  and  our  servants.  And  be¬ 
sides,  we  have  an  assignation.” 

That  excuse  was  valid.  Everyone  knew 
the  details  of  everyone  else’s  love  affairs, 
but  it  was  good  form,  nevertheless,  to  go 
through  the  outward  gestures  of  observing 
secrecy.  So,  arm-in-arm,  the  two  walked 
home  alone,  protected  by  their  servants. 

“You  will  miss  your  Marcia  tonight," 
said  Arbiter,  “but  never  mind.  I  have 
sent  for  Chloe,  who  wilt  probably  amuse 
you.  She  has  been  out  of  Rome  on  some 
debauch  or  other,  but  her  master  promised 
to  send  her  to  my  house  this  evening.  Use 
her  well,  because  she  is  the  ablest  back¬ 
stairs  intriguer  in  Rome  and  she  will  do 
anything — literally  anything,  for  a  man 
she  likes.  The  thing  for  you  to  do,  is 
so  to  endear  Chloe  to  you  that  she  will 
whisper  in  Caesar's  women’s  ears,  and  in 
the  ears  of  his  eunuchs  and  bedroom 
slaves.  She  must  do  all  that  not  later  than 
tomorrow  afternoon,  so  that  when  Caesar 
finds  you  at  his  dinner  table  he  will  be 
already  predisposed  in  your  favor.  How¬ 
ever,  let  me  have  the  first  talk  with  her 
— alone  is  better.  I  will  explain  to  her 
what  is  expected,  promise  her  a  big  reward 
for  herself  in  addition  to  her  master's 
fee  for  her  services,  and  I  will  sing 
your  praises  to  her.  You  do  the  rest." 

“I  will  try,”  said  Clcander. 

“Nonsense!  Are  you  so  love-sick  for 
Marcia  that  you  can’t  amuse  yourself 
with  Chloe  to  preserve  your  own  neck? 
Let  me  tell  you,  Chloe  is  quite  an  experi- 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


23 


ence.  There  isn’t  a  worse  devil  or  a  more 
amusing  baggage  in  Rome,  and  she  can 
talk  and  joke  more  entertainingly  than 
any  honest  woman  in  the  world — suppos¬ 
ing,  I  mean,  that  there  were  such  a  thing 
as  an  honest  woman.  She  knows  every¬ 
body's  secrets.  She  knows  all  the  scandal. 
And  she  has  brains.  So  mind  you  rise  to 
the  occasion.” 

GLEANDER  went  to  his  own  room, 
rather  gloomily,  wondering  where 
Marcia  was  and  trying  to  make  himself 
look  forward  to  the  opportunity  of  worst¬ 
ing  Vulpes  by  obtaining  Caesar’s  favor. 
He  detested  the  thought  of  bowing  hts 
stiff  neck  in  Caesar’s  presence.  He  would 
vastly  have  preferred,  if  that  were  pos¬ 
sible,  to  leave  the  whole  intrigue  in  Chloe’s 
hands ;  whatever  he  might  have  to  pay  her 
and  her  Alexandrian  owner  would  be 
cheap  as  the  price  of  avoiding  the  hu¬ 
miliation  of  having  to  ingratiate  himself 
with  such  a  monster  as  Caligula  was  said 
to  be.  Cleander’s  pride  was  about  the 
only  thing  he  dreaded  losing,  and  he  told 
himself  that,  were  it  not  for  Marcia,  he 
would  keep  the  pride  and  let  the  fortune 
go.  He  wondered  whether  Marcia  would 
tum  out  to  be  worth  it  after  all. 

"Freedom  sometimes  makes  the  best  of 
them  ungrateful.  And  hers  is  a  strange 
superstition.  Who  knows  what  a  Chris¬ 
tian  will  do  when  placed  in  a  dilemma? 
Am  I  a  madman  ?  Well — ” 

A  servant  summoned  him  to  drink  an 
appetizer  with  his  host  beside  the  lamp-lit 
fountain  in  the  atrium.  He  shrugged 
away  his  gloom  and  strode  forth,  his  ar¬ 
tistic  eye  observing  the  slim,  supple  figure 
of  a  Greek  slave  girl  who  stood  answering 
Arbiter’s  questions. 

"This  is  Chloe,”  said  Arbiter.  "Let  us 
take  our  cups  and  let  her  pour  the  wine ; 
she  will  inspire  it  with  Hellenic  zest.” 
Chloe  took  the  wine  jar  in  her  hands 


and  turned  as  gracefully  as  a  bramble 
swaying  in  the  wind.  Cleander  almost 
gasped.  She  was  the  woman  who  had 
followed  him  from  Fastidius  Flaccus* 
house,  and  who  had  cursed  him  in  Flaccus’ 
garden  because  he  had  told  her  to  go  and 
offer  her  obscenities  to  Vulpes.  She 
smiled  as  mischievously  sweetly  as  if  they 
shared  a  good  joke. 

"I  have  told  her  all  about  your  feud 
with  Vulpes  and  what  you  and  I  expect 
of  her,”  said  Arbiter, 

CHAPTER  VI 

"Love  me — and  let  tomorrow  bring  forth 
what  it  way/” 

SHE  was  an  artist  in  her  own  way, 
Chloe.  She  enjoyed  Cleander 's  con¬ 
sternation,  and  let  him  know  she  did. 
Nevertheless,  her  attitude  was  perfectly 
respectful  and  she  left  it  to  Cleander  to 
decide  whether  or  not  to  try  to  make  his 
peace  with  her.  Meanwhile,  as  a  hired 
out  entertainer,  she  was  obviously 
pleased  to  sing,  dance,  gossip  and  be  com¬ 
plaisant.  Alexandria  had  taught  Rome 
what  to  expect  from  dancing  girls  and 
Chloe  followed  the  two  friends  into  the 
dining  room  with  the  air  of  being  soul 
and  body  at  their  service  and  delighted 
to  oblige  them. 

For  a  while,  as  they  reclined  on  couches 
and  the  slaves  brought  wine  and  viands 
fit  for  far  more  wealthy  men  than  those 
two,  she  sang  to  them,  plucking  a  strange 
stringed  instrument.  Her  songs  were 
chaste  and  lyrical;  her  voice  was  tow, 
well  trained  and  pleasing.  Told  by  Ar¬ 
biter  to  make  herself  at  ease,  she  reclined 
on  a  heap  of  cushions  and  presented  an 
apparently  unstudied  picture  of  rather  ex¬ 
perienced  innocence.  She  could  not  have 
been  less  than  thirty  years  old,  and  the 
fife  she  had  been  trained  and  forced  to 


24 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


lead  would  have  taxed  a  lioness'  strength, 
yet,  dim  light  favoring  perhaps,  she  looked 
r.o  more  than  twenty-two  or  -three;  and 
though  she  had  come  that  day  from  enter¬ 
taining  Flaccus  and  his  friends,  she  looked 
gay  and  tireless.  If  she  tried  to  listen 
to  the  conversation,  she  gave  no  sign  of 
it ;  and  as  long  as  she  sang,  there  was  not 
much  risk  of  her  overhearing  Cleander's 
low  voiced  comments  on  the  situation. 

"Has  she  spoken  with  anyone  other 
than  you?" 

“Undoubtedly.  She  came  in  through 
the  servants’  entrance." 

“And  you  say  she  is  bad?" 

“There  is  not  a  worse  devil  in  Rome." 
A  sort  of  pride  stirred  Arbiter  as  he  ad¬ 
mitted  that.  By  no  means  every  Roman 
knew  the  ins  and  outs  of  life  so  well  that 
he  could  summon  Chloe  for  the  sendee  of 
his  guest. 

“You  have  told  her  about  Vulpes?  She 
has  very  likely  spoken  to  my  gladiators. 
And  she  may  have  learned  that  Marcia 
is  in  hiding.  We  are  undone,  my  friend, 
before  we  begin.  Unless — ”  He  paused, 
because  her  song  ceased. 

“Sing  agam,"  said  Arbiter. 

“Unless  you  know  some  way  of — " 

“Two  ways,”  said  Arbiter,  “love  her 
or  kill  her." 

“If  she  has  the  brains  you  intimate  she 
has,  then  she  understands  perfectly  that 
I  am  telling  you  why  she  is  my  enemy." 

“You  have  not  yet  told  me.” 

GLEANDER  described  the  incident  in 
Flaccus’  garden,  "1  told  her  to  take 
her  blandishments  to  Vulpes,  and  she  very 
likely  did.  What  more  natural  than  that 
Vulpes  should  have  commissioned  her  to 
betray  me  by  some  means  or  other?  She 
was  as  angry  as  a  kicked  she-wolf.  She 
knew  Vulpes  is  my  enemy.  She  probably 
went  straight  to  him  and  offered  herself  as 
an  ally  against  me.” 


“Cleander — whom  the  gods  would  ruin, 
it  is  true  they  first  make  mad.  Are  you 
so  young  and  innocent  that  you  parade 
your  virtue  before  a  dancing  girl?  Oh, 
Vanity,  what  next  ?  Have  you  not  learned 
that  such  as  she  must  think  us  lecherous 
and  despicable,  even  if  we  are  not,  other¬ 
wise  they  set  to  work  at  once  to  make  us 
so;  and  if  they  fail  they  hate  us  to  the 
death?  Dioscuri!  She  has  learned,  I  sup¬ 
pose,  about  Marcia  being  a  Christian?” 

“Vulpes  will  have  told  her  that.  He 
accused  me  of  the  same  thing.” 

“Jupiter!  You  will  need  omniscience, 
my  friend,  to  get  you  out  of  this  mess. 
True,  I  have  a  small  ergastulum,  but  if 
I  should  imprison  her,  her  owner  would 
be  here  by  noon  to  find  out  why  she  has 
not  returned  to  him.  Her  services  are 
usually  spoken  for  a  week  or  ten  days 
in  advance.  Caligula's  master  of  cere¬ 
monies  may  have  engaged  her  for  tomor¬ 
row  night.  I  know  her  sort ;  if  we  should 
beat  or  bribe  her  she  would  agree  to  any¬ 
thing,  and  betray  us  with  the  next  breath. 
No,  Cleander,  you  liave  one  chance.  You 
must  make  her  love  you.” 

“If  she  were  a  child  I  might,”  Cleander 
answered.  “But  she  is  a  grown  woman. 
If  I  should  feign  love,  she  would  see 
through  that  and  hate  me  all  the  more." 

“It  is  either  that,  or  kill  her,”  Arbiter 
advised,  “or  else  she  will  destroy  you. 
You  might  order  Thrax  to  break  her  neck 
and  throw  her  into  the  street  for  the 
slaves  of  the  municipium  to  carry  away 
at  daybreak.  But  the  worst  of  that  is,  that 
her  owner  is  a  Roman  citizen — a  spiteful 
fellow  with  an  Alexandrian’s  intelligence. 
She  cost  him  an  enormous  sum  of  money 
and  is  a  good  investment.  He  would  set 
enquiries  going  and  would  presently  sue 
one  or  other  of  us  for  her  value.  He 
would  have  the  right  to  post  a  bond  of 
indemnity  in  case  of  destruction  of  their 
market  value  and  then  order  our  slaves 


■ 


■ 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


25 


tortured  before  the  magistrate  for  evi¬ 
dence  against  us.  And  you  know  what 
gladiators  are.  Under  torture  Thrax 
would  tell  the  truth  and  add  to  it.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  you  should  send  Thrax 
to  the  country  that  would  be  regarded 
as  suspicious;  and  even  if  they  should 
never  be  able  to  produce  Thrax,  they 
would  torture  your  other  servants,  who 
would — Go  on  singing,  Chloc.” 

"No,  her  singing  irritates  me,"  said 
Geander.  “I  will  talk  to  her.  Let  her 
come  and  sit  here  between  us." 

ANOTHER  slave  brought  cushions. 

Chloe  curled  on  them  between  the 
couches,  chastely  unchaste,  eager  to  enter¬ 
tain  them  both  or  to  be  a  bone  of  conten¬ 
tion  between  them,  whichever  course 


events  might  indicate.  Geander  studied 
her  a  long  while,  until  at  last  he  held  his 
wine  cup  for  a  slave  to  fill  and  passed  it 
to  her. 

"Drink,  girl.” 

"My  name  is  Chloe,"  she  said  smiling, 
answering  his  gaze  over  the  brim  of  the 
cup.  But  she  only  sipped  the  wine. 

“Chloe,  did  you  ever  forgive  anyone 
in  all  your  life?”  Geander  asked  her. 

“No.  How  should  I?  Slaves  have  no 
forgiveness  to  give  to  anyone.  I  was 
slave-born.  Who  would  want  my  forgive¬ 
ness — saying  that  1  had  it  in  my  gift? 
What  I  am — what  I  can — what  I  do — 
is  for  hire.  And  I  am  worth  the  money.” 

“Do  you  mean  I  can  buy  your  interest?” 

“I  have  none  for  sale.  1  am  a  slave. 
I  work  in  my  master's  interest.” 


“My  name  ia  Chloe,”  she  said  smiling — over  the  brim  of  the  cup. 


■ 


■ 


mem 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


26 

"And  your  owner — ?*' 

"Hires  me  to  the  highest  bidder.” 

"I  am  not  a  rich  man.  I  can  not  afford 
to  bid  high,”  said  Cleander.  "However, 
I  know  that  my  enemy  Vulpes  has  per¬ 
suaded  you  to  help  him  to  destroy  me. 
And  I  know  you  hate  me  because  I 
treated  you  without  much  consideration 
the  other  night.  You  are  probably  quite 
justified  in  hating  me.  It  is  not  my  habit 
to  be  insolent  to  men  or  women  who  are 
not  entitled  to  retaliate,  but  I  forgot  my¬ 
self  that  night  because  of  mixed  emotions. 
What  I  wish  to  learn  is,  how  to  make 
such  amends  as  you  consider  suitable ;  and 
how  to  get  you  to  work  for  me,  not 
Vulpes.  Tell  me.” 

Chloe  showed  him  her  beautiful  teeth, 
in  a  smile  that  was  worthy  of  Leda  se¬ 
ducing  the  swan.  "You  are  the  hand¬ 
somest  man  I  have  ever  seen,  most  mar¬ 
velous  Cleander !” 

"Let  us  forget  that  for  a  moment.” 

"How  can  I  forget  it  when  you  have 
shoulders  like  Apollo  and  arms  like  Zeus 
himself,  O  lover  of  lovers,  O — ” 

"Listen  to  me,”  said  Cleander. 

“Thou  whose  voice  is  like  the  warm 
wind  calling  forth  the  scented  blossom 
on  Hymettus  I” 

"I  am  calling  forth  your  better  nature, 
Chloe.” 

"Humming  happiness,  as  bees  amid  the 
blossom,  Chloe  is  already  yours.  And 
the  night  is  young ;  why  waste  it  speaking 
of  unpleasant  tilings?  O  glorious  Clean¬ 
der,  such  a  torso  as  you  have — such  mus¬ 
cles — such  thighs  of  sculpted  marble !  Did 
Praxiteles  carve  you  out  of  Parian  stone, 
O  stoney-hearted  one?  You  speak  to 
Chloe  of  forgiveness  ?  You  with  such  lips 
as  can  tempt  her  to  die  for  the  bliss  of 
enjoying  them !  You — " 

"It  is  of  death  I  would  speak,”  said 
Cleander.  "I  have  a  friend — ” 


"I  doubt  not  that  the  whole  world 
loves  you.” 

"I  have  a  friend  who  would  avenge 
me  on  the  body  of  my  betrayer.” 

“Friends  die  also;  it  is  only  life  that  is 
worth  thinking  about — life  while  it  lasts,” 
said  Chloe.  "Love  me,  and  let  tomorrow 
bring  forth  what  it  may.” 

STRANGE,  gray-iron  notions  held 
Cleander  in  a  grip  that  he  felt  no 
wish  to  break.  He  was  no  more  virginal  in 
thought  or  deed  than  any  other  Roman, 
but  his  pride  stirred  strongly  and  con¬ 
tempt,  which  is  an  unwise  impulse,  smiled 
along  the  thin  line  of  his  lips.  By  law 
and  immemorial  custom  Marcia,  whom  he 
had  set  free,  nevertheless  was  almost  more 
his  than  she  had  been;  gratitude  and  a 
kind  of  freedom  both  gave  dignity  to 
what  the  law  of  ownership  had  merely 
licensed.  The  weird,  un- Roman,  uncon¬ 
ventional  idea  played  with  him  and  pleased 
him,  that  he  was  bound  to  Marcia  as 
much  as  Marcia  to  him.  And  the  good, 
old-Roman  manhood  in  him  rigidly  re¬ 
fused  to  risk  his  dignity  in  Chloe’s  arms. 
Daylight  would  find  her  as  free  as  ever 
to  serve  Vulpes  and  to  whisper  calumnies 
up  palace  backstairs ;  she  would  probably 
take  exquisite  delight  in  the  double  treach¬ 
ery.  However,  he  knew  that  Arbiter 
would  urge  him  to  accept  that  risk;  and 
he  did  not  care  to  speak,  even  with  Ar¬ 
biter,  about  the  veiled,  dim  Christian 
ideals  that  lie  had  mocked  with  tolerant 
good  humor  but  that  actually,  he  knew, 
made  Marcia  something  dearer  to  him 
than  a  boughten  bed -mate.  It  was  dis¬ 
agreeable  to  analyze  his  motives.  So 
he  rode  rash  impulse — gave  full  rein  to 
contempt  that  he  knew  he  should  have 
been  too  proud  to  feel. 

"Hands  off  me!”  he  commanded, 
frowning.  "Again  I  tell  you:  you  may 
take  your  blandishments  to  Vulpes.  He 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


27 


may  value  them.  As  for  your  hatred  of 
me,  I  prefer  it  to  the  thought  of  accepting 
favors  from  you.*' 

Arbiter’s  lips  moved,  framing  the 
words  that  leaped  to  them :  “You  idiot !” 
But  he  made  no  sound ;  he  was  watching 
Chloe  scramble  to  her  feet  and  by  sheer 
will  power  inask  such  hatred  as  almost 
turns  breath  into  viperous  mist.  She 
backed  away  and  stooped  for  her  stringed 
instrument. 

Then  suddenly,  beside  the  screen  that 
concealed  the  service  door,  stood  Ajax, 
the  least  pleasing  of  Oleander’s  gladiators 
— a  great-shouldered  man  with  hairy  legs 
and  eyes  too  closely  set.  And  Chloe’s 
self  restraint  broke  down ;  she  let  escape 
one  damning  sarcasm  that  convicted  her 
once  and  for  all  of  having  used  her  charms 
on  the  gladiators  in  the  kitchen. 

“He  brings  you  tidings  of  your 
Marcia." 

Arbiter  summoned  his  steward.  “Turn 
her  out  of  the  house !" 

The  steward  bowed.  “But  it  was  stipu¬ 
lated  in  the  terms  of  hire  that  if  dis¬ 
missed  by  night  she  should  not  be  sent 
home  unprotected.  Whom,  sir,  shall  I 
send  with  her?" 

"Take  her  away.  I  will  tell  you  pres¬ 
ently.  Meanwhile,  let  her  talk  to  no 
one.  Send  the  other  servants  from  the 
room  and  let  Ajax  approach." 

Ajax  told  his  story  bluntly.  “Marcia 
found  that  one-eyed  jew  named  Simon, 
who  directed  her  to  a  house  in  a  street 
where  armorers  ply  their  trade.  She 
drove  her  bargain  and  found  lodging  with 
a  maker  of  tents.  There  we  left  her 
and  returned  hither  by  a  round-about  way, 
as  your  honor  commanded." 

“Are  the  wine  shops  open  at  this  hour  ?" 
Cleander  wondered.  He  could  smell  the 
man’s  breath,  “Where  is  Murmex?" 

“In  the  servants’  quarters.  He  has 
colic." 


“Too  drunk  to  stand  up,  I  suppose. 
If  you  men  can’t  go  on  a  simple  errand 
without  guzzling  wine  in  every  den  you 
pass,  I  shall  have  to  sell  you  for  the 
arena.  Wait  outside  the  door  until  I  send 
for  you  again," 

RBITER  finished  the  wine  in  the 
goblet  in  front  of  him,  draining  it 
to  the  last  drop.  “You  are  quite  right," 
he  said,  nodding.  “It  is  the  only  thing 
to  do.  Send  Ajax,  and  let  Ajax  kill  her 
in  some  dark  corner;  afterwards  he  can 
say  that  she  gave  him  the  slip  to  go  wan¬ 
toning  on  her  own  account.  If  she  should 
live  until  the  morning  she  will  inform 
against  you  as  surely  as  you  have  earned 
her  enmity.  Her  master  will  get  the  in¬ 
formation  money,  and  she  will  keep  a 
small  percentage  for  her  own  peculium. 
She  will  probably  link  you  up  in  some 
way  with  the  Christians ;  or  she  may 
prefer  to  say  she  heard  you  criticizing 
Caesar.  Very  likely  she  will  make  both 
accusations.  So  let  Ajax  kill  her.  Call 
him  in  and  give  him  orders." 

“She  may  live,  for  all  I  care,  until 
the  Greek  Kalends,"  Cleander  answered. 
“Let  Rome  rot,  and  Caesar  with  it  I  1 
would  rather  die  than  have  to  live  by  such 
means.  No,  no,  friend  of  mine;  if  my 
affairs  have  made  you  timid  I  will  leave 
your  house  and  so  absolve  you  from  all 
risk  on  my  account.  You  may  say  you 
turned  me  out  because  you  doubted  my — " 

“Jupiter  capitolinus !  Silence,  will  you  1 
I  will  not  permit  my  friendship  to  be 
spurned  in  that  way!  If  you  insist  on 
dying  like  a  fool,  then  I  will  die  with 
you,  that  is  all.  Let  us  open  our  veins 
and  have  done  with  it — as  Horatius  Scipio 
did  quite  recently,  and  Claudius  Tor¬ 
mentor,  and  at  least  a  dozen  others.  Why 
give  that  beast  Caligula  the  pleasure  of 
killing  us?” 

“Let  us  give  him  the  chance  to  play 


28 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


the  man  before  we  play  the  weakling/* 
Cleander  answered.  "No,  no.  Let  us 
attend  his  banquet.  Life  is  not  worth 
much,  but  it  is  ours  and  it  involves  our 
dignity.  Let  us  preserve  it  by  all  hon¬ 
orable  means  before  we  let  a  cur  like 
Vulpes  and  a  mcretrix  like  Chloe  frighten 
us  to  an  ignoble  end,  I  would  as  soon 
be  crucified.  Let  Ajax  take  that  strumpet 
home  and  tell  her  owner  she  was  not  worth 
table-leavings." 

CHAPTER  VII 
"She  is  a  Christian.’' 

DAYLIGHT  renewed  optimism.  On 
a  sunny  morning,  listening  to  the 
caged  birds  sing  beside  the  flower-decked 
fountain  in  Arbiter’s  atrium,  it  appeared 
ridiculous  that  destiny,  Caligula  or  any 
other  monstrous  force  should  have  hor¬ 
rors  in  store.  Fleecy  white  clouds  idled 
in  a  clear  blue  sky  and  the  breakfast 
fruit  tasted  Olympian.  After  all,  this 
was  Rome,  and  they  Patricians.  It  was 
nonsense  to  suppose  that  Caligula,  a 
mere  youth  of  no  particular  talent  and 
no  especial  breeding,  could  destroy  the 
traditional  rights  of  men  whose  ancestors 
had  conquered  nearly  all  the  known  world. 
Men  who  are  bom  with  a  sense  of  dignity 
revert  to  that  as  instinctively  as  other 
men,  who  have  none,  hate  it  and  react 
against  it. 

The  invitations  to  the  banquet  arrived 
early  and  threw  the  entire  household  into 
half  hysterical  excitement.  Slaves  are 
the  establishers  of  routine.  Slaves  are 
the  creators  of  social  distances;  they  are 
the  drawers  of  the  veils  of  mystery  that 
hide  mere  human  vanities  from  human 
eyes  and  make  impossible  absurdities  not 
only  possible  but  unavoidable.  It  was 
Arbiter’s  and  Geander's  slaves,  from  the 
Alexandrian  steward  downward,  who 
made  an  invitation  to  a  meal  in  Ceasar’s 


palace  seem  like  a  summons  to  some  un¬ 
earthly  sphere.  And  unearthly  it  was, 
since  Caesar’s  slaves  insisted  that  it 
should  be. 

Litters  borne  on  solemn  shoulders 
tli  rough  the  torch-lit  streets  toward  a 
Capitol  that  uprose  like  the  ghost  of  his¬ 
tory  against  a  star-lit  sky.  A  dark  gate 
made  mysterious  by  lantern  light.  A 
quiet  challenge,  and  the  dank  of  armor 
from  the  darkness  where  the  picked  prae¬ 
torian  guard  stood  motionless.  A  lantern 
borne  by  an  orderly.  A  veteran  officer 
who  peered  into  the  lantern  light  to 
scrutinize  the  written  invitations. 

“Eja ! — age!  You  may  pass  in.” 

Darkness  again  for  a  moment  where 
an  archway  cast  its  shadow  on  square 
flagstones.  Then,  suddenly,  no  longer 
Rome — the  orient.  Not  even  Roman 
statuary — Greek  and  Egyptian  gods — a 
marble  stairway  plundered  from  Geo- 
patra’s  waterfront.  Not  even  Roman 
insolence  as  blunt  and  wholesome  as  an 
onion,  but  a  new  sort,  sly-eyed  and  obse¬ 
quious,  arno'ed  in  scented  silk  that  came 
from  who-knew-where  by  way  of  Trebi- 
zond.  Politeness  vaguely  veiling  greedy 
and  suspicious  smiles  and  not  a  trace — 
none— none  whatever  of  the  great  Au- 
gustian  simplicity.  The  grimness  of 
Tiberius  was  gone.  The  gilt-and-marble 
stairway  and  the  columned  corridor  be¬ 
yond  it  leading  to  the  great  reception 
room,  were  lined  with  more  attendants 
than  a  company  of  kings  should  need 
and  not  one  face  was  frankly  hostile  or 
indifferently  friendly,  as  a  stranger’s 
should  be;  they  were  curious,  alert,  sly, 
opportunist. 

LEANDER  and  Arbiter,  striding 
down  the  corridor  with  the  masculine 
grace  of  old-time  Romans,  were  led  by  a 
silk-robed  effeminate  freedman  who  stank 
of  exotic  perfume.  He  led  on  past  the 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


29 


door  of  the  great  reception  room  toward 
a  curtained  antechamber.  Slaves  drew 
back  the  curtains  as  if  they  were  reveal¬ 
ing  unchaste  mysteries.  The  freedman 
led  toward  a  desk  of  rare,  carved  wood 
where  a  freedman  secretary  wrote  on 
parchment  by  the  light  of  an  oil  lamp  set 
inside  a  gilded  human  skull.  He  de¬ 
manded  the  invitations. 

“Are  you  Fabius  Arbiter?  Are  you 
Vergilius  Geander?  Very  well." 

He  nodded,  checked  off  the  names  on 
a  tablet  and  resumed  his  writing.  Two 
slaves  at  the  far  end  of  the  anteroom 
drew  crimson  curtains  clashing  on  a 
bronze  rod;  a  double  door  opened  sud¬ 
denly,  and  they  strode  through  into  the 
small  reception  room  where  Greek  erotic 
legends  were  depicted  on  the  walls  and 
Flaminius  Glaucus,  the  palace  chamber- 
lain,  a  trifle  pompous  and  a  bit  too  genial, 
was  doing  the  preliminary  honors  for 
about  two  dozen  guests,  of  whom  six 
were  women.  He  greeted  Arbiter  without 
fuss,  but  he  was  so  immediately  cordial 
to  Geander  that  everyone  else  in  the 
room  turned  and  stared  at  him.  He  de¬ 
manded  that; 

"Look,  all  of  you!  The  handsomest 
young  Roman  who  has  come  to  court  since 
I  was  chamberlain  1  Vergilius  Clcandcr. 
Husbands,  guard  your  wives !” 

He  may  have  thought  Cleander’s  ob¬ 
vious  embarrassment  was  due  to  bashful¬ 
ness  under  the  gaze  of  six  beautiful 
women.  He  laughed  with  evident,  but 
otherwise  not  easily  explained  amuse¬ 
ment  as  he  took  Cleander' s  arm.  He 
seemed  almost  excited — turned  so  sud¬ 
denly  that  he  bumped  into  the  slave  who 
'teas  carrying  a  tray  of  glasses,  followed 
by  another  who  bore  the  sharp  tanged 
appetizer  wine;  in  spite  of  the  slave’s 
adroitness  half  a  dozen  glasses  fell  and 
were  smashed  to  splinters  on  the  floor, 
where  they  were  pounced  on  by  a  third 


slave  and  swept  out  of  sight  in  an  instant, 

“Bacchus!  I  trust  that  is  not  an  evil 
omen — are  you  readily  disturbed  by 
omens? — Whip  that  clumsy  duffer — take 
him  out  and  whip  him  as  he  deserves — 
give  him  two  hundred  strokes  of  the  cane. 
The  rogue  is  fortunate;  if  Caesar  had 
seen  him  make  that  blunder — Did  I  tell 
you  that  we  have  with  us  tonight  a  neigh¬ 
bor  of  yours — do  you  know  him? — " 

But  Geander  had  seen  Vulpes  almost 
before  the  doors  had  closed  behind  him 
and  Arbiter.  The  sight  had  chilled  his 
skin.  It  almost  sickened  him.  He  guessed 
that  Glaucus'  cordiality  was  due  to  a 
desire  to  cover  up  intrigue — his  chuckle 
an  indication  of  malicious  zest  for  ar¬ 
ranging  stupefying  shocks.  However, 
Vulpes  seemed  equally  taken  aback. 
Geander  walked  straight  up  to  him. 

"How  are  you,  Vulpes?  Did  you  pay 
that  money  to  my  steward?" 

"I  am  well,  Geander,  thank  you.  Yes, 
I  paid  him — though  I  thought  it  rank 
discourtesy  in  you  to  absent  yourself  and 
leave  only  a  servant  to  greet  me." 

“Did  you  go  to  my  house  alone?" 

“I  never  move  unattended.  In  spite  of 
Caesar’s  constant  vigilance  in  our  behalf, 
the  roads  are  unsafe.” 

“Of  course  you  had  your  gladiators 
with  you.  Whom  else  ?” 

“My  attendants." 

"Your’s  or  Caesar’s?  Foxl  I  know 
you.  I  stole  a  move  on  you.  Do  now 
what  you  dare,  and  you  shall  And  me 
ready  for  you." 

HE  WAS  not  ready.  He  had  no  no¬ 
tion  how  to  protect  himself,  except, 
perhaps,  by  making  a  good  impression 
on  Caligula.  But  he  hoped  to  stir  in 
Vulpes  a  suspicion  that  a  well  timed 
counter-move  was  under  way;  it  might 
cause  Vulpes  to  delay  his  own  plans. 
Anything  to  gain  time. 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


30 

"You  talk,”  said  Vulpes,  "like  a  cock¬ 
erel.  However,  I  have  eaten  cockerels 
that  crowed  before  their  spurs  were 
ready.”  He  thrust  out  his  great  belly 
and  his  lower  lip,  rubbing  his  chin  with 
the  palm  of  his  right  hand  and  looking 
slyly  sideways  at  Cleander,  who  resisted 
the  impulse  to  tell  him  he  looked  like 
a  seller  of  horse-ineat.  He  made,  instead, 
a  shrewd,  sneering  foray  for  information: 

"I  had  your  pet  mereirix,  Chloe,  with 
me  last  night.” 

“Yes,”  said  Vulpes.  “Yes,  yes.  But 
not  all  last  night,  Cleander.  Chloe  was 
dismissed  by  you  at — what  hour  was  it  ? 
She  is  a  girl  who  knows  the  difference 
between  an  onion  and  a  bunch  of  grapes, 
as  you  may  have  noticed.” 

Cleander  turned  his  back  and  looked 
for  Arbiter,  w'ho  was  conversing,  with 
what  seemed  like  genuine  gaiety,  with 
two  women.  He  wanted  to  break  to 
Arbiter  the  grim  news  that  already  Chloe 
had  done  mischief.  But  he  had  no  chance 
to  get  near  him.  Opulently  dressed  slaves 
took  their  places  at  the  top  of  three  steps 
at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  and  Glaucus 
began  reading  the  order  of  precedence 
from  his  tablet,  rather  roughly  ordering 
the  guests  to  line  up  as  he  called  their 
names.  Cleander ’s  place  was  last;  he 
would  be  at  the  foot  of  the  table.  Arbiter 
would  be  near  the  middle  of  the  table, 
facing  Vulpes. 

The  tall  doors  opened  wide,  revealing 
Caesar's  banquet  hall.  In  spite  of  his 
patrician  tastes,  Cleander  had  always 
thought  himself  a  rather  modern  minded 
man,  but  his  emotions  instantly  rebelled 
at  the  sight  of  that  extravagance  of 
oriental  luxury.  There  was  nothing 
Roman  about  it,  no  simplicity  and  no 
concession  to  the  stern  idealism  of  the 
days  gone  by.  There  was  no  harmony,  no 
beauty.  It  was  a  lurid  splurge  of  gross¬ 
ness,  scowled  on  by  a  marble  statue  of 


Publius  Scipio  Africanus  at  the  far  end 
of  the  hall.  The  other  statues  were  of 
naked  women.  Almost  naked  slave  girls, 
with  their  arms  outstretched,  upheld  a 
sort  of  pergola  of  woven  flowers,  under 
whose  overpoweringly  scented  arches  the 
guests  must  pass  to  reach  the  table.  Slave 
musicians  in  a  balcony  discoursed  some 
sort  of  oriental  music  with  a  maddeningly 
suggestive  lilt.  Beneath  the  balcony,  up¬ 
ended,  three  Egyptian  mummy-cases  stood 
like  curiously  observant  sentinels,  one  be¬ 
tween,  and  one  on  either  side  of  two 
doors  through  which  entertainers  pres¬ 
ently  would  come,  and  facing  those,  at 
a  gilded  door  at  the  back  of  a  high  dais, 
stood  two  lictors  and  four  plumed  guards¬ 
men,  in  armor,  with  spears  and  shields. 

The  scene  so  jarred  Oleander's  nerves 
that  he  forgot  his  own  fear  for  the  mo¬ 
ment,  He  felt  as  if  Rome’s  neck  were 
under  an  alien  heel.  He  felt  it  even  more 
as  he  stood  at  the  end  corner  of  the  long 
dinner  table,  beside  his  couch,  with  the 
scented  breath  of  Caesar's  boughten 
women  in  his  ears,  and  waited  in  humble, 
indecorous  silence  for  the  tyrant, 

SUDDENLYa  golden  trumpet  sounded. 

The  gilded  door  opened  and  Caesar 
strode  on  to  the  dais.  He  was  not  alone ; 
lie  had  a  leopard  with  him  and  was  fol¬ 
lowed  by  two  black  slaves,  of  whom  one 
kept  an  eye  on  the  leopard  and  held  a 
noose  in  his  gloved  hand,  with  which  to 
subdue  the  animal  in  case  of  need. 

Of  the  two,  the  leopard  looked  by  far 
the  nobler,  although  Caligula  wore  an  im- 
perator’s  cloak  over  his  silken  garments 
and  carried  in  his  right  hand  a  caduceus 
to  suggest  that  he  was  something  more 
than  mortal.  He  was  a  scrawny,  tall 
young  man,  with  so  much  hair  on  his  body 
that  he  could  not  by  any  means  conceal  it ; 
but  he  was  clean-shaven  and,  despite  his 
youth,  his  head  was  almost  bald.  He 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


had  pale  eyelashes  that  made  his  green- 
gray  eyes,  red-rimmed  from  lechery  and 
lack  of  sleep,  look  like  those  of  a  fish. 
He  glanced  down  at  the  leopard  and 
grinned.  He  seemed  to  try  to  imitate  the 
leopard’s  sneer  as  he  swung  the  caduceus 
to  and  fro  in  a  probably  half -unconscious 
simulation  of  the  movements  of  the  leop¬ 
ard’s  tail.  The  guests  bowed,  silent. 
Geander  was  the  only  one  whose  eyes 
met  Caligula’s,  and  they  stared  at  each 
other  for  nearly  a  minute,  until  at  last 
Caligula  stepped  down  to  his  own  wide 
divan,  draped  in  silks  and  leopard  skins, 
at  the  head  of  the  table.  Prodding  the 
couch  with  the  caduceus,  as  if  he  thought 
there  might  be  snakes  concealed,  he  pres¬ 
ently  sat  clown  and  sprawled  with  the  in¬ 
solence  of  a  barrack  room  bully,  clucking 
and  snapping  his  fingers  to  persuade  the 
leopard  to  leap  up  and  lie  beside  him. 

“If  my  leopard  were  more  obedient  I 
would  make  him  a  senator/’  he  remarked. 
That  was  all.  No  greeting  to  his -guests. 
That  was  their  permission  to  take  their 
places,  and  they  all  did. 

Suddenly  the  music  struck  up  wildly 
and  the  flower  girls  leaped  into  move¬ 
ment,  dancing  with  their  ropes  of  flowers 
around  and  around  the  table.  They 
were  marvelously  trained,  but  Caligula 
took  no  notice  of  them.  Under  slightly 
lowered  eyelids  he  observed  his  guests, 
staring  them  one  at  a  time  out  of  counte¬ 
nance,  but  paying  most  attention  to  the 
women,  craning  his  long  neck  to  see  them 
better,  until  at  last  his  judgment  fell  on 
the  youngest  matron  in  the  room. 

“Is  that  your  wife,  Gratillus?  I  never 
suspected  you  of  such  good  taste.”  His 
bet  unpleasant  voice  was  vibrant  and  it 
carried  through  the  music  and  the  thump 
of  bare  feet  dancing  on  the  carpets.  “Send 
her  here  to  me.  Let  me  see  if  she  looks 
as  lovely  at  dose  quarters.” 

The  husband  smiled.  The  wife  obeyed. 


31 

She  went  and  stood  before  him,  and  he 
signed  to  her  to  sit  beside  him  on  the 
divan.  But  she  feared  the  leopard. 
Caligula  laughed.  For  a  minute  he  went 
through  the  farce  of  trying  to  persuade 
her;  then  he  suddenly  grew  tired  of  it, 
prodded  her  with  the  caduceus  and  sent 
her,  looking  foolish  and  humiliated,  to 
her  husband. 

“Good  enough  for  you,  Gratillus;  but 
I  like  them  twice  as  bold  as  leopards. 
Then  I  have  some  fun.  And  by  my 
Genius,  I  tell  you,  there  is  not  enough 
fun.  There  are  too  few  Romans  who 
have  throats  worth  slitting." 

Having  made  that  offering  to  the  eve¬ 
ning’s  entertainment,  he  grew  genial  and 
began  to  talk  to  the  guest  at  his  right 
hand,  joking  with  him  about  the  dozens 
of  new  horses  he  had  bought  in  the  hope 
of  entering  at  least  one  winning  team 
in  the  chariot  races.  Conversation  be¬ 
came  general.  Aurelius,  a  senator,  whose 
place  was  at  Cleander’s  left  hand,  talked 
with  him  sotto  voce: 

“Our  Caligula  is  virginal  tonight.  He 
usually  gives  a  pretty  woman’s  husband 
more  than  that  to  remember  him  by. 
I  have  seen  him — ” 

“Gaiety!  More  gaiety!”  Caligula 
shouted.  He  was  already  drinking  like 
a  dry  sponge.  "Drive  out  these  fools!” 
One  gesture  and  the  dancing  girls  all 
fled  like  frightened  children  through  a 
door  between  the  mummy-cases.  A  long 
line  of  slaves  came  through  another  door 
carrying  mounds  of  food.  “Bring  on 
your  entertainers!  Jupiter!  I  have  had 
no  sleep  for  three  nights.  Does  nobody 
care  ?  Am  I  to  sit  here  mocked  by  mel¬ 
ancholy  ?” 

“As  for  me,"  said  Aurelius,  “I  am  one 
of  those  who  refuse  to  marry,  lest  Caligula 
should  hear  of  it.  He  might  bid  my 
wife  to  a  banquet.  But  did  you  hear  about 
Marcus  Longinius?  Thinking  to  incrati- 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


32 

ate  himself  with  Caesar  he  married  a 
woman  and  sent  out  tempting  rumors. 
Sure  enough,  Caligula  invited  them.  But 
he  is  shrewd;  he  can  see  through  subtler 
schemes  than  that.  He  gave  the  woman 
one  glance  and  then  banished  them  both 
to  an  island  to  endure  each  other’s  com¬ 
pany.  He  said  he  could  imagine  no 
worse  fate  for  anyone,  nor  anyone  more 
worthy  of  a  worse  if  only  that  could  be 
invented,” 

/'"'I  ONJURERS  came  in,  and  tumblers, 
to  whom  impossibilities  seemed  com¬ 
monplace.  Caligula  looked  bored.  He 
began  to  fool  with  the  leopard  beside 
him  until  the  slave  whose  business  it  was 
to  guard  him  from  the  animal  crouched 
nearer  to  the  throne  on  tiptoe,  with  his 
noose  in  both  hands,  ready.  Then  a  slave 
behind  the  dais  whispered,  and  Caligula 
remembered  something. 

“Is  that  not  Virgilius  Qeander  at  the 
far  end  7*  he  demanded.  “By  the  Dios¬ 
curi,  you  are  too  good  looking !  It  is  small 
wonder  that  women  love  you.  I  am  told 
you  have  a  slave  whose  beauty  has  even 
made  you  write  bad  poems!  Let  us  see 
this  Venus.  Where  is  she?” 

"I  don’t  know,”  said  Cleander. 

“Don’t  you  ?  I  do.  Bring  the  woman 
in!” 

Geander  almost  groaned  aloud.  Aure¬ 
lius,  beside  him,  chuckled  in  a  sort  of  help¬ 
less  sympathy,  lialf  cynical,  half  fearful 
to  betray  itself.  Arbiter,  on  the  far  side 
of  the  table,  met  Oleander's  eyes ;  he  had 
turned  ashen  gray. 

“She  is  a  Christian,”  said  Vnlpes, 
smirking. 

“Is  she?”  asked  Caligula.  “I  am  told 
that  Christians  don't  believe  in  Roman 
gods,  in  which  they  are  not  far  from 
being  wise.  If  they  should  say  there 
is  no  god  but  Caesar  I  would  pack  the 
senate  with  them  and  we  might  see  decent 


government  for  once.  However,  bring 
the  woman  in !” 


CHAPTER  VIII 
"]  accuse  myself* 

MARCIA  came  in  between  two 
guardsmen.  Someone  had  dressed 
her  in  yellow  linen,  with  a  chaplet  of 
rose-buds  and  a  chain  of  flowers  around 
her  shoulders.  That  was  Glaucus’  doing; 
he  looked  proud  of  his  showmanship; 
he  eyed  Cleander  sideways,  not  yet  openly, 
but  obviously  gloating  at  the  chagrin  of 
a  man  whom  he  had  been  at  such  pains 
to  flatter.  Vulpes  tolled  and  looked  self¬ 
consciously  important  —  virtuous  —  tri¬ 
umphant.  To  Geander  now  the  whole 
plot  was  as  plain  as  if  written  iu  words 
on  the  wall:  Chloe  had  traced  Marcia 
and  connected  her  with  the  outlaw  Chris¬ 
tians — Marcia  was  to  be  the  bait  for 
Caesar’s  gluttony — he,  Cleander,  was  to 
be  humiliated  in  exchange  for  the  humilia¬ 
tion  he  had  tendered  Vulpes  in  the  house 
of  Flaccus — he  was  then  to  be  accused  of 
treason. 

Marcia  met  his  eyes.  She  loved  him. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  knew 
what  love  was.  She  was  loyal  to  the 
death;  he  understood  that — thrilled  so 
to  the  understanding  of  it  that  he  hardly 
heard  Aurelius’  low  voice : 

“Have  you  poison  with  you?  If  so, 
swallow  it.  Caligula  hates  a  handsome 
man.  It  is  too  bad,  but  the  dice  seem 
loaded.” 

Geander  glanced  at  Arbiter,  whose 
pallor  betrayed  the  fear  that  gripped 
him.  He  decided  to  save  Arbiter  at  all 
costs.  He  could  see  no  hope  of  saving 
Marcia  from  the  clutches  of  Caesar,  who 
already  was  leering  at  her,  licking  his 
lips,  oblivious  for  the  moment  of  every¬ 
thing  except  her.  He  enjoyed  unwilling 


I 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


women.  Modesty  enflamcd  his  madness. 

Suddenly  a  sort  of  madness  seized 
Cleander.  Dignity  seemed  better  to  him 
than  any  prize  that  life  could  offer. 
Marcia  had  dignity.  Had  he  none?  His 
was  a  Roman’s  heritage.  Such  swine  as 
Vuipes — such  a  bestial  tyrant  as  Caligula 
might  rob  him  of  money  and  lands.  Could 
they  rob  him  of  valor.  He,  too,  could 
spring  surprises.  He  arose  from  his 
couch.  His  voice  was  as  abrupt  and 
vibrant  with  authority  as  some  scarred 
tribune’s  on  parade. 

“Caesar,  that  women  is  free.  I  freed 
her  yesterday.  She  is  no  man’s  property. 
As  her  patron,  I  appeal  on  her  behalf 
to  Roman  law.” 

He  sat  down,  cool,  in  spite  of  the  sen¬ 
sation  he  had  caused.  He  smiled  at 
Caesar’s  answering  oath;  it  was  a  fight 
now,  and  the  fight  was  on;  he  had  never 
yet  flinched  in  action.  He  stood  up  again ; 
that  oath  had  ripped  aside  Caligula’s 
mask ;  the  coward  showed  within  the  mon¬ 
ster: 

“The  law  is  your  own.  You  have  used 
it  scores  of  times.  I  defy  you  to  dare 
to  ignore  it  now.” 

The  guards  clanged  shields  on  armor 
to  remind  Caligula  that  they  were  there 
to  do  his  bidding.  Caligula  scowled  like 
a  maniac.  There  was  silence  for  at  least 
a  dozen  deep-drawn  breaths.  Even  the 
music  ceased.  Then  Vuipes  croaked  his 
contribution  to  the  climax ; 

“Is  the  law  not,  that  a  slave  may  not 
be  freed  to  save  her  from  being  tortured 
to  give  evidence  against  her  master?" 

Again  Cleander  stood  up.  “Evidence 
on  what  charge?"  he  demanded.  “I  am 
a  Roman.  It  is  my  right  to  know  who 
my  accusers  are.” 

“I  have  heard  it  said,”  said  Vuipes, 
sticking  out  his  lower  lip,  “Virgilius  Qe- 
ander  is  accused  of  having  said  that  Caesar 
is  a  traitor  to  Rome  because  he  ignores 


33 

our  Roman  laws  and  destroys  our  Roman 
institutions.  If  to  speak  such  words  is 
treason,  then  the  Roman  law  is  that  the 
man’s  slaves  all  may  be  examined  under 
torture.  If  convicted,  the  man’s  pos¬ 
sessions  are  forfeit — and  the  man’s  life 
also.” 

ARBITER  was  whispering  to  Glaucus, 
who  nodded  repeatedly.  Glaucus 
somehow  seemed  aware  of  humor  in  the 
situation — sardonic  humor;  but  then, 
Glaucus  understood  Caligula.  Cleander, 
knowing  lie  had  called  down  death  on  his 
own  head,  faced  it  mockingly — a  mood 
that  made  him  swift  to  snatch  at  chances; 
there  was  one  chance  in  a  million  that 
Arbiter  had  thought  of  something,  so 
Cleander  sparred  to  give  him  time : 

“Are  you  my  accuser,  Vuipes?”  he  de¬ 
manded. 

Glaucus  gave  him  no  time  to  deny  it; 
craning  his  neck  to  miss  nothing  of  what 
Arbiter  was  saying,  he  tossed  his  scrap 
of  fuel  in  the  flame: 

“Yes,  Vuipes  is  your  accuser.” 

“I  am  more  amused,"  announced  Cali¬ 
gula,  “than  I  have  been  for  weeks.  Vuipes 
is  a  fine  fat  pigeon." 

“He  is  very  rich,”  said  Glaucus.  Even 
Marcia  smiled  at  that  remark;  it  meant 
that  Arbiter  would  make  no  claim  for  a 
percentage  of  the  fat  man’s  plunder.  Ar¬ 
biter  had  given  information— true  or 
false,  no  matter — deadly. 

“Is  the  law  not,  that  a  false  informer 
stands  convicted  of  the  crime  he  charged  ?" 
Cleander  asked.  “I  charge  you,  Vuipes, 
on  two  counts.  Deny  one,  and  you  prove 
the  other.  How  long  since  you  accused 
me?” 

Vuipes  made  no  answer ;  he  was  watch¬ 
ing  Caesar’s  face;  and  Caesar’s  face  was 
uglier  than  the  leopard’s  on  the  throne 
beside  him.  Glaucus  began  studying  his 
tablet. 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


34 

"It  was  Vulpes,"  he  remarked,  "who 
wrote  suggesting  that  Geander 's  Marcia 
might  make  a  welcome  gilt  for  Caesar." 

"Pluto!”  exclaimed  Caligula.  "You 
knew  she  was  a  Christian  and  you  rec¬ 
ommended  her  for  me?  Did  you  wish 
to  sec  me  murdered?  Poisoned?  Done 
to  death  by  magic?” 

Vulpes  stammered :  "Imperator,  I  have 
thought  of  nothing  but  your  welfare.” 

"Toad !”  Geander  interrupted.  "You 
accused  me.  Nevertheless,  you  sat  at  table 
with  me  in  Flaccus’  house ;  and  yesterday 
you  paid  to  my  steward  five  hundred  thou¬ 
sand  sesterces.  I  denounce  you  as  a  liar 
or  else  as  one  who  knowingly  consorts 
with  traitors!” 

"I  denounce  you  as  a  Christian,”  said 
Vulpes. 

"Excellent.  They  both  stand  charged 
with  treason.  We  will  torture  them  all,” 
said  Caligula.  "Slaves  first,  masters  after¬ 
wards,  Oleander  being  such  a  stickler  for 
our  cherished  forms  of  law." 

"Then  you,  too,  appeal  to  the  law?” 
Geander  asked  him. 

Caligula  glanced  at  Glaucus:  “How 
long  is  it  since  1  put  two  senators  to 
death  for  daring  to  advise  me  to  abolish 
law?” 

"They  are  probably  more  or  less  dead 
by  now,”  said  Glaucus. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember,  we  invented  a 
new  way  of  killing  them.  We  will  begin 
by  torturing  Oleander’s  lady-love,  whom 
he  has  manumitted  too  late.  Are  his  other 
slaves  in  custody?  Where  are  they ?  By 
my  Genius,  if  one  escapes  me  I  will  punish 
someone!  Where  are  Vulpes’  servants? 
Round  up  all  of  them,” 

Four  guards  strode  forward,  eyebrows 
raised,  eyes  watchful  for  the  first  hint. 

"Yes,  yes,  put  them  both  in  fetters. 
T raitors  at  Caesar’s  banquet  table — this  is 
the  most  interesting  moment  since — ” 

Geander  interrupted  him,  although  he 


no  longer  troubled  himself  to  look  at 
Vulpes  or  at  Caesar.  His  eyes  met 
Marcia’s  ;  he  knew  no  torture  in  the  world 
could  make  her  say  one  word  against  him, 
and  he  knew  the  thought  of  death  was 
hugely  sweeter  to  her  than  the  prospect 
of  an  hour  in  Caesar’s  dutches— one  of 
her  strange,  chaste,  Giristian  principles 
that  had  no  taint  of  pride — incomprehen¬ 
sible,  but  rather  beautifully  blameless ;  her 
astonishing  ideals  were  what  he  loved  best. 
She  would  welcome  death,  if  she  might 
meet  it  unpolluted  by  Caligula,  and  he, 
Geander,  had  it  in  his  mind  to  give  her 
that  gift.  In  addition,  it  was  not  within 
his  estimate  of  dignity  to  let  slaves  suffer 
for  their  master’s  ill  luck.  With  a  char¬ 
acteristic  Roman  gesture  of  the  right  arm 
he  appealed  to  his  fellow  guests,  inviting 
their  opinion  and  daring  Caesar  to  defy  it : 

"May  the  slaves  of  a  man  whose  guilt 
is  self-confessed  before  more  than  a  dozen 
witnesses  be  put  to  torture  ?”  he  de¬ 
manded. 

THERE  was  a  murmur.  One  answer 
was  possible,  and  only  one. 

"May  a  freedwoman  be  tortured  if  she 
has  confessed  her  guilt?  Marcia,  are  you 
a  Christian?” 

"All  know  I  am,”  said  Marcia.  "I 
have  not  denied  it.  I  will  be  a  Christian 
with  my  last  breath,” 

“You  have  heard  her,”  said  Geander. 
"I,  too,  am  a  Christian.  I  accuse  myself  ” 
His  gestures  were  as  eloquent  as  only 
Roman  charm  could  make  them,  as  he 
turned  toward  Caligula.  "That  all  may 
know  me  guilty,  I  accuse  you,  Caesar,  of 
usurping  powers  not  entrusted  to  you  by 
the  people.  Let  the  law  pursue  its  course. 
I  have  a  Roman's  right  to  die  in  the 
arena — as  has  Marcia  also.  Vulpes,  who 
pretends  he  is  a  guiltless  paragon  of 
virtue,  you  may  torture  as  you  see  fit.” 
That  was  the  one  sure  thrust  Geander 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


35 


made.  Caligula’s  insomnia-maddened  brain 
was  fertile  wilh  expedients  for  making 
law  submit  to  his  caprices;  he  had  fifty 
laws  he  could  have  cited,  passed  by  a 
servile  senate  and  forgotten  until  Caesar 
chose  to  use  them.  It  would  add  to  his 
enjoyment  to  torture  them,  master  and 
slave,  in  each  other’s  presence,  if  that 
might  lawfully  be  done.  But  Vuipes  saved 
that  moment  for  them  all,  intending 
nothing  of  the  kind. 

He  rose  and  flung  himself  at  Caesar’s 
feet.  He  groveled.  He  offered  money. 
Utterly  losing  his  head,  he  vowed  he 
would  reveal  the  names  of  plotters  against 
Caesar's  life.  He  would  surrender  his 
estates  and  all  his  wealth  to  Caesar — ” 

"They  are  mine  already,"  Caesar  an¬ 
swered,  stroking  his  leopard  and  licking 
his  lips. 

“But  not  the  lions,  Caesar — not  the 
lions!" 

There  was  possibly  remaining  in  Cali¬ 
gula  some  remnant  of  appreciation  for  a 
manly  attitude,  some  measure  of  contempt 
for  cowardice.  More  probably  a  sense  of 
drama  lingered  in  his  mad  mind.  Con¬ 
trast  stirred  in  him  sardonic  humor.  And 
he  may  have  thought  of  the  political  ad¬ 
vantage  to  himself,  of  glutting  the  eyes 
of  the  Roman  niob  with  the  sight  of  a 
beautiful  woman  and  two  men  of  rank 
done  shamefully  to  death  in  the  arena. 

"To  the  lions  with  them — all  three! 
Drag  that  fool  out !  Secretary — where  is 
that  slow  drudge?  Write  the  order — 
make  haste — all  three  to  the  carceres — 
for  treason — to  be  tom  by  lions  in  the  next 
games." 

CHAPTER  IX 

"Which  way  do  you  like  death?" 

GAIUS  RUBER,  the  lanista,  was  a 
man  whose  charity  was  tempered  by 
the  obvious  responsibilities  of  his  pro¬ 


fession,  and  by  his  own  cupidity,  which 
was  no  less  obvious.  His  wintry-blue 
eyes  were  too  close-set  to  be  those  of  a 
generous  man;  and,  commonly  with  exe¬ 
cutioners  and  jailers  of  all  times,  it  was 
not  a  soft  heart  that  had  earned  him  his 
peculiar  distinction.  He  had  seen  too 
many  die  to  care  a  clipped  as  for  the 
rank,  sex.  guilt  or  innocence  of  victims. 


“How  do  you  propose  to  pay  mci" 


But  his  pay  was  nothing  much  and,  un¬ 
der  Caligula,  lie  did  not  always  get  it;  so, 
within  extremely  rigid  limits  set  by  knowl¬ 
edge  that  the  last  lanista  had  been  beaten 
to  death  by  Caligula's  order  for  permit¬ 
ting  prisoners  to  escape,  he  was  not  above 
persuasion  if  it  took  the  form  of  some¬ 
thing  he  could  use  for  money. 

Down  in  the  reeking  darkness  of  the 
dungeons  underneath  the  Circus,  Maxi¬ 
mus  Qcander  spoke  with  him  through 
the  small  iron  grating  of  a  cell  door. 
There  was  a  fire,  in  a  brazier,  at  the  end 
of  the  stone  passage,  but  that  was  not  for 


36 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


anybody’s  comfort ;  it  was  to  heat  the 
irons  with  which  to  keep  the  prisoners 
in  order  in  the  event  they  made  unneces¬ 
sary  noises  or  indulged  despair  with  at¬ 
tempts  at  mutiny.  Its  red  light  glowed  on 
Gains  Ruber’s  face  and  made  one  half 
of  it  look  like  a  sardonyx  cameo. 

"A  well  born  gentleman  might  lie  to 
me,”  said  Ruber.  "I  have  known  them 
to  do  it.” 

"Yes,  and  I  could  hold  my  tongue,” 
Cleander  answered.  "I  am  telling  you  the 
truth,  and  what  I  ask  will  cost  you  noth¬ 
ing;  so  that  even  if  you  should  get  noth¬ 
ing  you  would  not  he  out  of  pocket.  You 
will  be  running  no  risk — none  what¬ 
ever.” 

“Mow  do  you  propose  to  pay  me?” 

“You  may  pay  yourself.  Like  most 
men  with  their  life  and  liberty  at  stake 
in  these  uncertain  times,  I  buried  a  con¬ 
siderable  sum  of  money.  I  can  tell  you 
where  I  buried  it.” 

“Go  on  then,  tell  nre.” 

"I  will  tell  you  at  the  moment  when  I 
enter  the  arena — not  until  then — and 
then  only  if  you  have  done  what  I  ask 
you  to  do.” 

“You  want  poison,  I  suppose,”  said 
Ruber,  “or  an  opiate.  Well,  you  can’t 
have  either.  I  send  in  my  prisoners  to 
amuse  the  people,  not  to  die  drunk.” 

“Pluto  take  you  and  your  opiates !  For 
myself  I  want  very  little — nothing  but 
my  own  clean  clothing.” 

“It  is  usual  to  sell  good  clothing  to  a 
dealer,” 

“You  may  sell  mine  after  I  am  dead.” 

“All  torn  and  bloody?  Bacchus!  Do 
you  take  me  for  a  born  fool  ?” 

“All  right  then.  My  money  can  stay 
where  I  buried  it.” 

“Don't  get  testy.  What  else  do  you 
want?” 

“I  want  Marcia  to  enter  the  arena  with 
me—” 


"She  will  do  that  anyhow.  Vulpes, 
she,  you  and  a  dozen  others;  but  the 
others  are  all  prisoners  from  Sicily— ac¬ 
cording  to  the  execution  warrant,  ban¬ 
dits.” 

“I  want  Marcia  unviolated,  unharmed 
and  decently  dressed.” 

"Hey !  Hey !  Arc  you  crazy  ?  That’s 
a  good  looking  girl,  that  Marcia.  I  can 
sell  her  favors  for  a  fine  price  to  the 
merry  lads  who  like  to  brag  about  that 
sort  of  pastime  from  their  seats  in  the 
stadium.  They  pay  well,  since  it  gives 
them  a  peculiar  emotion  to  see  a  woman 
they  have  violated  tom  by  lions.” 

"My  buried  hoard  would  pay  you  ten 
times  letter.  Much  more  than  ten  times 
better.” 

“If  I  thought  it  weren't  a  mare’s  nest 
at  a  rainbow’s  end.” 

"It  is  all  gold  money  of  Augustus'  mint¬ 
ing,  And  its  secret  shall  die  with  me  un¬ 
less  you  do  exactly  as  I  ask.  But  if  you 
do  exactly  as  I  ask,  then  I  will  tell  you, 
just  before  we  enter  the  arena,  where  the 
money  is  and  how  to  get  it.” 

"Bacchus!  Almost  I  believe  you. 
Well,  as  you  say,  it  will  cost  me  nothing. 
I  will  chance  it — maybe.  I  will  think  it 
over.  Pluto!  Tell  me  an  unlikely  story 
when  the  time  comes,  and  I  will  give  you 
a  touch  of  the  hot  iron  as  you  enter  the 
arena  that  will  make  you  crave  the  lions 
as  a  quick  way  out  of  anguish !  Hey-yeh, 
I  have  heard  so  many  stories.  On  the  war¬ 
rant  yon  are  called  a  Christian.  Do  you 
swear  by  the  God  of  the  Christians?” 

"Ndf1  By  my  father’s  hearth  and  by 
my  manes.” 

“Well,  that  sounds  convincing.  And 
you  look  honest.  Maybe  I  will  risk  it — 
maybe.” 

ARBITER,  by  some  strange  freak  of 
destiny,  had  not  been  charged  with 
harboring  a  traitor.  Possibly  the  total 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


of  his  debts  was  known  to  exceed  his 
assets,  so  that  his  estate  was  not  worth 
confiscating.  And  Cleander  knew  that 
Arbiter  would  leave  no  ingenuity  un¬ 
tried  to  effect  a  rescue,  even  though  the 
odds  against  it  were  a  million  to  one. 
All  other  friendship  failing,  Arbiter 
would  very  likely  smuggle  in  some  poi¬ 
son.  But  Cleander,  if  so,  was  deter¬ 
mined  not  to  use  it,  since  he  knew  that 
Marcia  would  refuse  to  use  it,  that  be¬ 
ing  one  of  her  incomprehensible  rules  of 
conduct;  and  the  |>oct  in  him  made  it 
almost  seem  a  privilege  to  die  with 
Marcia,  since  both  of  them  must  die  tn 
any  case.  He  could  comfort  her  and 
lend  her  courage;  that  was  something. 
Thirty  thousand  mocking  voices — thirty 
thousand  staring  faces — that  would  he 
the  worst  of  the  ordeal.  Hungry  Hons 
do  their  business  fairly  quickly. 

He  could  hear  the  lions.  He  could 
smell  them.  There  was  an  air-shaft  lead¬ 
ing  from  the  dens  up  through  the  dun¬ 
geons.  When  the  framers  went  in  to  en¬ 
rage  the  hungry  brutes  by  offering  them 
meat  and  then  withdrawing  it,  only  to 
crack  them  instead  on  the  nose  with  a 
stick,  he  wondered  about  lions.  There 
was  not  much  else  to  think  about.  He 
wondered  how  the  hunters  faced  them  in 
their  native  deserts — how  much  fight  one 
nian  could  offer  twenty  of  them,  if  he 
had  a  weapon— and  what  sort  of  weapon? 
There  was  no  more  skillful  swordsman 
than  himself  in  all  Rome — 

That  brought  Arbiter  to  mind  again. 
He  wondered  whether  Arbiter  would 
realize  that  next  to  an  actual  rescue, 
which  was  so  nearly  impossible  as  not 
to  be  worth  considering,  the  greatest  serv¬ 
ice  he  would  do  would  be  to  smuggle  in 
some  sort  of  weapon,  if  only  a  dagger. 
He  dared  not  try  to  send  him  word  to 
that  effect.  He  could  only  hope  that 
Arbiter  would  think  of  it.  To  go  down 


37 

fighting  would  make  death  easier  even 
though  the  fight  were  hopeless.  He  began 
to  wonder  how  much  truth  there  was  in 
stories  he  had  heard  of  sending  thought 
through  stone  walls.  How  was  the  trick 
done?  He  began  to  try  to  do  it — frown¬ 
ing — concentrating. 

“Arbiter!  Arbiter!  Send  me  a 
weapon !’’ 

But  the  days  and  nights  dragged  on 
without  a  sign  from  Arbiter,  until  the 
morning  came  when  thunder  on  the 
wooden  platforms  of  the  stadium  an¬ 
nounced  that  the  people  were  taking  their 
seats.  The  unfed,  irritated  lions  roared 
in  darkness.  Leopards  yowled.  There 
was  a  din  of  voices  like  the  far-off  frenzy 
of  the  sea,  ascending  to  a  burst  of  greet¬ 
ing  as  the  people  recognized  some  fa¬ 
vorite  official.  It  was  almost  possible  to 
tell  when  Caesar  took  his  place.  And 
there  was  no  doubt  when  the  master  of 
ceremonies  gave  the  signal  to  begin. 
There  was  a  sudden  silence,  lasting  all 
the  while  the  gladiators  marched  past 
Caesar’s  box  and  halted  to  salute  him; 

“Caesar!  nos  morituri  te  salutamus !" 

Then  the  short,  sliarp  bursts  of  mob 
excitement,  as  the  gladiators  fought  in 
pairs,  and  the  exultant  shout  of  “ Habet !” 
when  a  man  lay  bleeding  on  the  sunlit 
sand. 

At  last  the  summons.  Hastily  Clean¬ 
der  donned  the  clean  and  neatly  folded 
clothing  that  Gaius  Ruber  sent  to  him  by 
the  hand  of  a  dungeon  guard.  So  Gaius 
Ruber  kept  faith  ?  He  had  even  sent  the 
beautifully  woven  toga  that  Cleander  wore 
the  night  of  his  arrest.  Cleander  smiled ; 
he  wondered  what  Caligula  and  all  his 
intimates  would  say  to  a  man  being  sent 
to  execution  in  a  toga!  But  had  Ruber 
kept  the  bargain  about  Marcia?  If  so,  he 
should  have  the  secret  of  the  buried 
hoard — not  otherwise.  Up  then,  out  of 
stenching  darkness  to  the  fresher  air  and 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


38 

dim  light  of  the  arched  enclosure  beneath 
Caesar’s  royal  box ;  he  stumbled  over 
corpses  of  seven  gladiators  in  a  row 
that  had  been  dragged  out  by  the  masked 
slaves  —  two  with  throats  cut — three 
marked  by  the  hot  iron  to  determine 
whether  they  were  actually  dead  or 
only  shamming. 


THERE  was  din  in  the  arena;  thirty 
Spanish  bulls  were  being  done  to 
death  by  men  on  horseback,  and  were 
giving  a  gory  account  of  themselves  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  comments  of  a  guard  who 
peered  through  a  knot  hole  in  the  high, 
wide  entrance  door. 

"Hercules!  Seven— no,  eight  horses 
slain — and  six  men !” 

Vulpes  stepped  forth  from  a  group  of 
prisoners— a  pale,  emaciated  Vulpes  in 
the  unbleached  smock  served  out  to  such 
criminals  as  had  clothes  worth  taking  from 
them.  There  was  no  sign  yet  of  Marcia. 
A  slave-guard  with  a  hot  iron  brandished 
it  at  Vulpes,  driving  him  back  to  the 
group  he  had  left;  but  other  slaves  with 
hot  irons  drove  the  entire  group  toward 
the  dingy  corner  where  Cleander  stood; 
he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Vulpes, 
hemmed  in  by  the  other  hopeless 
wretches,  hungry,  verminous  and  clothed 
like  Vulpes  in  the  smocks  that  were  to  be 
their  shrouds. 

"Cleander,  I  have  poison.  I  will  share 
it  with  you.” 

"Swallow  it  yourself,  you  blackguard. 
Offer  some  to  those  poor  devils.” 

“No,  no,  I  have  barely  enough  for  two 
of  us.” 

"Then  swallow  it  all.  And  may  the 
Harpies  hound  your  shade  forever!" 

"Is  that  generous,  Cleander?” 

It  was  Marcia  at  last,  edging  her  way 
between  the  prisoners,  wearing  the  same 
light  yellow  costume  they  had  decked  her 
with  for  Caesar's  banquet — pale  from  the 


dungeon  darkness,  but  as  gay  as  if  bound 
to  her  wedding. 

"How  have  they  treated  you,  Marcia?” 

"Almost  kindly.  It  is  very  sweet  to 
die  with  you,  Cleander.” 

"No  humiliation  ?” 

"No,  none.  Gaius  Ruher — " 

Gaius  Ruber,  looking  worried — as  a 
man  must  be  on  whom,  in  part,  depends 
the  entertainment  of  a  candid  audience — 
came  near  them,  from  behind  Cleander, 
standing  half  invisible  within  the  shadow 
of  the  wall.  He  had  left  a  narrow,  wooden 
door  in  the  wall  half  open,  for  a  swift 
retreat  in  case  some  notable  should  chance 
to  pass  through,  as  they  sometimes  did 
for  the  sake  of  sneering  at  an  enemy  con¬ 
demned  to  die. 

“What  of  it?”  he  demanded.  “Do  you 
keep  that  promise?" 

Cleander  nodded.  "At  the  north  end 
of  my  farm,  eleven  paces  from  the  great 
oak,  stands  a  granite  landmark.  Stand 
exactly  midway  of  the  line  between  them. 
Take  eleven  paces  southward.  Dig — and 
you  have  it.” 

"May  your  shade  know  never  a  resting 
place  if  you  have  lied  to  me,”  said  Gaius 
Ruber.  Then  he  vanished  and  the  door 
shut  squeaking  on  a  hinge  innocent  of 
oil.  Cleander  then  took  Marcia  in  his 
arms,  but  he  embraced  her  almost  sternly ; 
he  was  afraid  to  let  emotion  master  him, 
lest  dignity  should  suffer.  He  wanted  to 
keep  calm  for  Marcia’s  sake.  No  word — 
no  sign  from  Arbiter.  That  stung  him; 
he  supposed  that  even  Arbiter  was  faith¬ 
less,  like  the  others.  Just  one  word  by 
the  mouth  of  a  slave  from  Arbiter,  and 
he  could  have  met  death  gaily;  stoically. 

“You  are  a  brave  girl,  Marcia.  I  love 
you,  and  I  die  with  you  without  regret.” 

He  did  not  hear  her  answer;  it  was 
smothered  in  a  half -sob  on  his  shoulder. 
And  besides,  he  had  a  glimpse  just  then 
of  the  arena  and  the  tiers  on  tiers  of 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


39 


crowded  seats,  as  the  door  swung  wide 
to  let  them  drag  out  mangled  carcasses 
of  bulls  and  horses — presently  of  men, 
too.  He  wondered  whether  Arbiter  was 
up  there  among  the  spectators— hoped  he 
was — then  hoped  he  was  not.  Slaves  went 
hurrying  out  with  hags  of  sand  to  cover 
up  the  bloodstains,  and  the  door  swung 
shut.  Another  moment  now.  Marcia, 
with  her  face  against  his  breast,  was  pray¬ 
ing;  he  patted  her  and  stroked  her  hair, 
but  he  was  thinking  about  Arbiter. 

“Farewell  to  friendship,  friend  of 
mine.  Though  you  liavc  failed  me.  may 
you  not  know — ” 

THE  hinge  of  the  door  in  the  shadow 
l>eliind  him  creaked  again  and  premo¬ 
nition  stirred  him.  He  could  not  well 
move,  because  of  Marcia,  but  he  turned 
his  head ;  the  door  was  partly  open,  and 
he  thought  he  saw  someone's  figure 
crouching  in  the  deepest  darkness.  How¬ 
ever,  there  was  no  time  to  look  twice.  A 
brazen  trumpet  blared  in  the  arena  and 
tile  voice  of  Gaius  Ruber  shouted :  “Vic¬ 
tims  for  the  lions  next !  Step  forward,  all 
of  you.  The  moment  the  door  opens,  out 
with  you!”  A  masked  slave  rattled  his 
iron  against  a  brazier,  “And  remember: 
hot  iron  for  whichever  of  you  halts  be¬ 
fore  you  reach  the  middle  of  the  arena  V* 
Something  touched  Geander's  left 
hand,  and  a  voice  said:  “Take  it — make 
haste — don't  look !”  He  groped,  gripped, 
heard  the  hinge  squeak — and  hugged 
Marcia — a  new  man !  Then  he  let  go  of 
her,  he  needed  both  hands  for  a  moment ; 
somehow  he  must  manage  to  conceal  a 
long  sword  and  a  long  stiletto  in  his  toga ; 
he  found  he  could  do  it  by  letting  the 
toga  fall  unevenly,  the  longer  portion 
hanging  from  liis  left  arm. 

“O  ye  gods,  if  yc  are  gods,  be  good  to 
Arbiter  who  did  not  fail  hts  friend!”  he 
prayed — the  first  time  he  had  prayed  un- 


cynicatly  since  he  had  been  old  enough 
to  reason.  Then  the  door  swung  wide 
again,  saluted  by  a  mocking  roar  from 
thirty  thousand  throats.  He  threw  his 
right  arm  around  Marcia  and  led  the  way 
in  boldly— careless— reckless — he  could 
die  now  as  a  man  should.  He  was  eager 
to  get  well  into  the  center  before  any  of 
the  guards  should  see  that  good  long 
sword  and  take  it  from  him — not  that 
anyone  would  get  it  without  a  hot  fight. 
Not  until  he  reached  the  center,  prac¬ 
tising  his  eyes  to  get  them  used  to  the 
glare  of  the  sand,  his  fellow  victims  trail¬ 
ing  in  a  miserable  group  behind  him,  did 
he  turn  and  stare  at  the  Imperial  suite, 
where  he  could  see  Caligula  and  Glaucus 
and  a  dozen  others  lolling  on  golden  cush¬ 
ions  beneath  a  purple  awning. 

IT  was  then  that  he  took  his  first  look 
at  the  fine  Damascus  blade  and  once 
more  blessed  his  good  friend  Arbiter.  The 
stiletto  was  no  less  perfect;  it  was  such 
a  dagger  as  had  once  slain  Caesar  be¬ 
neath  Pompey's  statue  on  the  Ides  of 
March.  He  wrapped  his  toga  thought¬ 
fully  around  his  left  arm  and  explained 
to  Marcia  how  to  tuck  the  ends  in,  so  that 
it  would  serve  him  as  a  sort  of  armor — 
and  better,  at  that,  than  a  shield  that 
would  have  made  his  left  hand  useful  only 
for  defense.  He  laughed,  remembering 
his  own  advice  to  Arbiter:  “Speed!  A 
swift  blow  is  worth  two  slow  ones — a 
quick  thrust,  followed  thrice  as  swiftly  by 
another — ” 

They  on  the  high- banked  seats  had 
seen  his  sword.  There  was  a  murmur, 
and  then  tumult.  Scornfully  his  brave 
eyes  answered  as  he  gazed  around  him  to 
mark  the  openings  through  which  the 
lions  would  come.  Then  Vulpes : 

“Pity  me  and  run  me  through  with 
that,  Oleander!”  He  was  on  his  knees, 
baring  his  gray -liai red  breast. 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


40 

“Swallow  your  poison,  you  vermin !” 

“I  did- — I  have — it  was  not  poison— 
Gaius  Ruber  fooled  me !’’ 

“Go  and  complain  to  Caesar,  There  he 
sits.  Salute  him — offer  to  betray  another 
dozen  Romans.” 

Mad  with  terror,  Vulpes  leaped  at  that 
idea.  Raising  his  smock  to  let  his  fat 
legs  run  the  faster,  he  almost  scampered 
toward  Caesar’s  awninged  seat.  The  first 
lion,  blinking  at  the  sunlight  as  he  stole 
forth  from  an  opening,  gave  chase  and 
slew  him  before  Vulpes  knew  that  they 
had  pulled  the  cords  and  loosed  the  lions 
for  their  meal.  Applause — yells — cat¬ 
calls  from  the  mob.  Then  silence. 

Marcia's  voice :  “The  lions  are  coming 
now,  Oleander.  I  am  sorry  you  were  not 
baptised;  but  neither  was  the  thief  who 
died  beside  the  Saviour  on  the  cross,  and 
he  was  promised  he  should  be  that  night  in 
paradise.  Die  fighting,  if  it  makes  death 
easier,  but  die  remembering  the  Lord, 
who  died  that  we  might  have  eternal  life.” 

He  had  no  heart  to  undeceive  her.  Let 
her  die  believing  him  a  Christian ;  it  might 
make  death  easier  for  her,  too. 

“Marcia,  keep  close  behind  me.  Do 
you  hear  me?  Move  swiftly  whenever 
I  turn,  and  keep  behind  me.  Keep  dose, 
but  keep  away  from  my  sword  arm.” 

“Brave  Cleander,  I  fear  not  death.” 

He  knew  that — knew  that  unless  he 
could  think  of  good  reasons  she  would  not 
try  to  prolong  life.  And  there  was  no 
real  reason.  He  imagined  one: 

“You  know  how  to  bless  me  as  I  die.  I 
don’t.  So  you  must  die  last,  Marcia.” 

He  felt  the  pressure  of  her  hand  but 
did  not  hear  her  answer.  He  did  not 
even  see  the  spectators ;  they  had  merged 
into  a  splurge  of  sunlit  color.  He  was  not 
really  aware  of  the  other  victims,  except 
vaguely.  He  had  concentrated  all  his  fac¬ 
ulties.  There  was  a  male  lion  sniffing  at 
the  blood  beneath  the  freshly  strewn  sand ; 


several  more,  crouching,  stalked  from  one 
direction;  three  were  on  his  right  hand, 
heads  high,  staring  at  their  prey  and  won¬ 
dering,  apparently,  where  to  begin.  One 
famished  looking  female,  on  his  left  hand, 
crouching  by  herself,  suddenly  made  up 
her  mind  and  came  on  swiftly,  belly  to  the 
sand.  Cleander  made  his  mind  up  also; 
for  a  swordsman,  determined  attack  is  the 
essence,  the  heart  of  defense. 

He  met  that  lioness  midway  of  her 
spring,  side-stepping,  stabbing  her  three 
times  before  she  could  correct  her  impetus. 
There  came  a  sea  roar  from  the  tiers  of 
seats,  but  it  did  not  drown  Marcia’s  quiet 
voice  behind  him: 

“On  your  right,  Cleander !” 

Three  together  now — three  male  lions, 
ravening  with  hunger.  He  attacked  the 
foremost ;  it  rose  and  struck  him  on  the 
forearm,  but  the  folded  toga  deadened 
the  terrific  shock.  The  sword  went  home 
like  lightening.  One  lion  jumped  the 
stricken  one  to  come  at  him  in  flank. 
Cleander  jumped,  too— forward.  The 
third  lion  sprang  at  Marcia ;  he  slew  it  as 
it  passed  him,  with  a  blow  of  the  edge 
of  his  sword  that  severed  the  neck  verte¬ 
brae — turned  swiftly  as  Marcia  screamed 
to  him  and  drove  his  point  home  down  the 
throat  of  the  second  lion,  then  closing — 
stabbing  with  the  long  stiletto,  all  but 
disarmed  by  the  death  throes  of  the  beast. 
He  had  to  set  his  left  foot  on  the  lion's 
head  to  drag  the  sword  free.  Time  then 
— three  breaths — for  a  glance  around  him. 

THERE  was  havoc  among  the  other 
victims.  Most  of  them  were  down, 
being  rent,  but  four  still  stood,  half  dead 
with  horror,  awaiting  death  like  dumb 
sheep  in  a  shambles.  Cleander  slew  one 
lion  from  behind  as  it  tore  at  a  victim’s 
entrails.  Marcia  screamed  again  and  he 
turned  in  time  to  attack  an  old  lion  that 
had  left  his  meal  to  deal  with  danger 


ROMAN  HOLIDAY 


1 


first;  he  charged  in,  crouching  low,  but 
the  sword  point  pierced  his  right  eye  and 
as  he  rolled  in  agony  the  next  stab  pierced 
his  lungs. 

Speed — speed  I  "Keep  close,  Marcia  1" 
The  wild  thought  flashed  into  Cl  candor’s 
mind  that  if  he  should  stay  all  those  lions 
then  the  crowd  might  acclaim  him  par¬ 
doned  and  perhaps  Caligula  would  yield  to 
the  crowd’s  demand.  He  might  save 
Marcia,  himself  and  those  four  wretches 
who  remained.  But  even  as  he  sprang 
to  defend  those  four  they  were  dragged 
down  all  in  a  heap  and  five  lions  fought 
with  one  another  for  the  spoil.  Of  the 
five  lions  he  slew  three;  two  more  fled 
from  him,  and  then  he  paused  again. 
The  crowd  was  frantic  with  excitement, 
but  there  was  no  more  thrill  to  offer  them ; 
the  remaining  lions  had  dragged  their 
victims  in  all  directions,  to  be  away  from 
one  another,  and  the  tumult  lessened.  He 
held  up  his  sword  to  appeal  to  the  crowd, 
but  there  was  no  such  response  as  would 
force  Caligula  to  let  him  go  free.  He 
glanced  toward  the  Vestal  Virgins  in  their 
box  near  Caesar’s  suite,  but  there  was  no 
sign  from  the  Vestals  either. 

"Marcia,  if  the  crowd  grow  weary 
of  us — " 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  pike-armed  keep¬ 
ers  of  the  lions  came  in  through  half  a 
dozen  doors  and  drove  the  lions  snarling 
to  their  dens,  where  live  goats  bleated. 
Suddenly  a  new  excitement  stirred  the 
crowd.  One  voice  like  a  cry  in  a  wilder¬ 
ness  yelled  “Murmex !”  In  a  moment  the 
whole  stadium  was  yelling  "Murmex  I 
Murmex !”  And  then  sudden  silence  as 
the  great  door  at  the  far  end  opened  and 
a  gladiator  strode  in,  armed  with  helmet, 
shield  and  sword. 

He  was  a  giant.  He  was  the  hated 
favorite  of  Rome.  Three  years  invincible 
— swaggering — insolent — loathed  for  his 
vanity — loved  for  his  fighting  genius — 


41 


contemptuous  of  the  crowd  that  praised 
him,  of  the  women  who  flung  their  flowers 
to  him,  and  of  all  opponents,  he  strode  in, 
faced  the  imperial  awning  and  saluted 
Caesar.  Someone  tossed  a  jeweled  brace¬ 
let  to  him,  and  he  stooped  and  clasped  it 
on  his  left  wrist,  leering,  gesturing  with 
his  thumb  at  Marcia.  Then  he  turned 
to  face  Cleander.  But  Clcandcr  offered 


Caesar  no  salute.  Holding  sword  and 
dagger  in  his  left  hand  for  a  moment,  he 
raised  his  right  arm  toward  the  Vestal 
Virgins,  marveling  at  their  pale,  impas¬ 
sive  faces.  They  made  no  response. 

Murmex  gestured  to  Oeander  with  an 
insolent  jerk  of  the  head  to  go  back  to 
the  center  of  the  arena  and  be  slain  there ; 
but  Cleander  saw  fit  not  to  humor  him. 

"I  earn  the  wench  for  my  reward,”  said 
Murmex.  “Which  way  do  you  like  death 
—edge  or  point?” 

"Wait  and  see,”  said  Oeander,  and 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


42 

Murtnex  waited  just  one  second  too  long, 
He  was  forced  on  the  defensive  before 
he  could  turn  with  his  back  to  the  sun, 
and  he  found  that  buckler  smalt  use 
against  the  swift  stiletto.  Blood  came 
streaming  front  his  ribs  before  his  weight 
was  off  his  heels.  H is  heavy  bronze  sword 
foand  no  room  to  swing ;  he  needed  every 
ounce  of  strength  he  had  to  spring  hack 
and  recover  balance,  and  Qeander  kept  on 
leading — lunging  at  him,  using  lightning 
speed  against  the  big  man's  weight  and 
huge  strength ;  forcing  him  to  give  ground 
— -backward — backward- — until  the  mob’s 
excitement  sounded  like  a  storm  at  sea, 
and  Murmcx,  trying  the  ancient  ruse  of 
suddenly  retreating  to  gain  footroom  for 
a  whirlwind  charge,  slipped  sideways  on 
the  blood  from  Vulpes’  lion-rent  corpse 
and  fell  dead,  with  Cleander’s  sword- 
point  thrust  into  his  heart.  “Habet! 
Murmex  habet!  Habet  1” 

THE  stadium  went  mad.  Cleander 
threw  his  left  arm  around  Marcia. 
He  thrust  his  thrumming  sword-point  in 
the  sand  and,  turning,  raised  his  right  arm 
toward  the  Vestal  Virgins. 

“Thumbs  up!  Thumbs  up!”  Thirty 
thousand  throats  were  one  in  thunderous 
applause  as  the  Vestals,  all  together, 
made  the  sign  that  neither  Caesar,  mob 
nor  senate  would  have  dared  to  challenge. 
Caesar  waved  a  purple  handkerchie  f .  The 
great,  grim  gate  beneath  the  imperial 
box,  through  which  so  many  victims  went, 
so  few  returned,  swung  wide  and  someone 
in  the  dimness  beckoned : 

“Haste!  Haste!  You  are  delaying 
business !” 

Masked  slaves  hurried  in  with  hooks 
and  bags  of  sand,  to  drag  the  carcasses 
away  and  cover  the  bloodstains.  Murmex’ 
body,  drawn  by  hooks  beneath  the  arm- 
pits,  passed  through  ahead  of  Marda 
and  Cleander,  so  swift  was  the  disciplined 


service — even  swifter  than  the  changing 
moods  of  Rome’s  impatient  mob. 

And  in  the  shadow  of  the  gloom  within, 
beside  a  charcoal  brazier,  stood  Arbiter, 
his  arms  outreaching.  He  embraced 
Cleander.  He  was  neither  dry-eyed  nor 
articulate.  “Away — away  from  here,” he 
urged.  He  took  their  arms  and  shoved 
them  toward  the  exit,  past  the  locked  cells 
where  gladiators  watted  for  their  cues — 
then  found  speech:  “But  where  did  you 
get  your  weapons?" 

“You— did  you  not  send  me  sword  and 
dagger?”  asked  Cleander. 

“I?  No—” 

“It  was  God,”  said  Marcia. 

“ — I  did  work  all  avenues  to  reach  the 
Vestals.  I  got  word  to  them  at  last  through 
Flavius  Augustus  Nepos,  father  of  the 
youngest  Vestal,  who  lias  recently  donated 
a  million  sesterces  to  the  temple  funds.” 

They  passed  two  shadowy  forms  within 
the  gloom  of  the  passage  entrance.  Gaius 
Ruber  held  a  small  man  by  the  throat 
and  shook  him : 

“Answer  me !  By  Bacchus,  I  will  make 
you  answer.  Did  you  give  that  sword  to 
him?  I  swear  to  Pluto  I  will  have  you 
crucified !” 

“What  does  it  matter  who  gave  him  the 
sword?”  asked  Simon’s  voice.  "Has 
Caesar  not  been  satisfied,  and  does  he  not 
go  free  ?  Let  go  of  me.” 

“Jupiter!  Why  did  you  do  it?  You 
dog  of  an  impudent  Jew !  You — ” 

"How  else  should  I  buy  lion  skins,  if 
nobody  kills  lions?  And  what  have  you 
lost?  Don’t  I  pay  good  prices?” 

Quietly  Qeander  laid  his  hand  on  Gaius 
Ruber’s  shoulder.  “Gently,  Ruber.  As 
he  says,  what  has  my  life  cost  you  ?  You 
shall  have  your  pot  of  money  without 
digging  for  it.  Pass  us  out.  Let  Simon 
follow.  Simon — ” 

“Has  been  a  Christian  for  seven  years,” 
said  Marcia,  whispering  in  Cleander ’s  ear. 


TOOLS  OF  DEATH 

By  JAN  JANECEK 


A  GREAT  IMPROVEMENT  OVER  DAVID'S  SLINGSHOT 


A  throwing  machine  for  siege  use— a  pivoted  arm  with  weight  on  one  end  and 
missile  in  a  sling  on  the  other.  The  "cannoneer"  winds  it  up  and  then  trips  the  beam. 
This  weapon  was  used  from  the  earliest  Greek  days  till  well  past  the  days  of  Julius 

Caesar — who  called  it  a  "ballista." 


THE  ORIGINAL  BLACKJACK 


THE  FLAIL— A  very  ancient  and  widely  used  weapon,  being  found  from 
the  13th  to  the  18th  centuries  in  India,  China  and  Japan.  Originally,  it 
probably  was  an  agricultural  implement,  but  rts  effectiveness  for  military 
use  was  soon  increased  by  adding  spikes.  Very  short  flails  were  sometimes 

used  by  horsemen. 


43 


The  Coasts  of 


FIRST  OF  A  SERIES 


& 


as 


,  m2 


In  talking  with  II.  Bedforfl +  ' 

Jones,  that  well-known  re¬ 
incarnation  of  Alexandre 
,  Dumas,  Srn  about  doing 

mr  tome  work  for  GOLDEN 

FLEECE,  he  made  the  re* 

■353 fc>  rnar/f  i/iar  “many  a  noble 

barque,  in  history,  hat  gone  to  wreck  an 
the  coasts  of  chance f*  We  caught  at  the 
phrase.  “There,* f  tee  exclaimed,  **is  the  tub * 
feci  for  a  series!  Little  known  historical  drama*,  great  dreams,  crafty  plots,  where  tome 
unforeseen  pebble  stubbed  the  toe  of  history!™  Maybe  our  metaphors  were  mixed,  but 
Mr*  Bed  ford -Jones  got  the  idea ,  as  proved  by  this,  hit  first  story  of  the  series  to  come~* 

44 


Coasts  of 


fa  talking  If,  fW/ard- 
/onei,  | Aar  wrfJ'JImown  rr* 
t  "  vr  in  at  mot  it*  ft  of  Airsnudr* 

Jt  J  ffttmai,  Sfrp  about  doing 
"P'tJ  *omr  work  for  GOLDEN 

p^>  FLEfc’CE,  hr  jriinff#'  thp  rff- 

niurt  rlmJ  "‘mti/ix  a  wMl 
finrgrtP,  lit  biliary,  ha*  gone  Id  trrerfc 
fljfl  rtHtii*  of  chance**'  ir p  nriUfgflu  at  fhr  3 
phwatp ,  "riW«*,w  iw  exeldm^f,  **!■  rfw*  i»b« 
fee  C  /ejr  a  iprip*,*  birth*  bmur/i  Air  tori  rat  drama*,  tfrpaf  dreamt,  crafty  pint**  where  jama 
unforme en  /ipbbfc  jfufjbpd  the  few  */  fciitofyf”  Maybe  o«r  mttaphon  ippre  hut 

Mr.  Bed  ford- Janet  got  (A#  IJw,  a*  pwn#  Ax  hii  firm  ttory  of  tfu ■  terUn  U*  came — 

44 


FIRST  OF  A  SERIES 


Chan  ce 


by  H.  BEDFORD-JONES 


Illustrated  by 
JAY  JACKSON 


lununi  his  JicmcI  4  link  and  then  stif- 
ftncd,  motionJcM,  as  he  glimpsed  the  figure 
that  stood  behind  him  with  k-vtkd  sward* 
black." 


EVENING  AT  THE  BLACK  BULL 


Y  FRIEND  HABERLEIN 
comes  into  my  ofike  and  calmly 
settles  down  and  raises  hob  with 
my  business  in  a  most  annoying  manner,  I 
can’t  resist  him;  no  one  can  resist  him. 

45 


He  has  a  hypnotic  charm  that  amounts  to 
genius.  If  he  says:  "Stopl”  the  dock  on 
the  desk  ceases  work — hefs  that  kind. 

When  he  came  in  yesterday,  I  saw  at  a 
glance  that  he  was  all  lit  up;  not  with 


Chan ce 


by  H.  BEDFORD-JONES 


Illustrated  by 
JAY  JACKSON 


EVENING  AT  THE  BLACK  BULL 


My  friend  haberlein 

comes  into  my  office  and  calmly 
settles  down  and  raises  hob  with 
my  business  in  a  most  annoying  manner.  1 
can't  resist  him;  no  one  can  resist  him. 

45 


He  has  a  hypnotic  charm  that  amounts  to 
genius.  If  he  says :  “Stop !"  the  dock  on 
the  desk  ceases  work — he's  that  kind. 

When  he  came  in  yesterday,  I  saw  at  a 
glance  that  he  was  all  lit  up;  not  with 


46 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


liquor  but  with  a  new  idea.  He  pulled  up 
a  chair,  fastened  his  black  and  glittering 
eye  upon  me,  and  let  me  have  both  bar¬ 
rels. 

“Harry,  I’ve  been  looking  into  history. 
I’m  making  a  collection  of  what’s  posi¬ 
tively  the  most  fascinating  line  of  stories 
you  ever  heard !  You  know,  a  lot  of  queer 
things  happened  that  don’t  get  into  the  his¬ 
tory  books ;  odd,  trifling  matters  that 
changed  the  course  of  human  events,  in  a 
greater  or  lesser  degree.  Who  knows  that, 
if  a  man  hadn’t  stopped  to  shave,  Bona¬ 
parte  would  have  gone  to  the  guillotine? 
It's  a  fact.” 

“Tell  it  to  the  marines,”  I  said  crossly. 
“Here  I've  got  a  pile  of  work - ” 

“Well,  listen !”  he  said,  and  with  a  groan 
of  resignation  I  listened.  “What  I've  got 
on  my  mind  right  now,  is  rich  stuff.  In  the 
middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  when 
Cromwell  ruled  in  England  and  Mazarin 
in  France,  a  piddling  little  unknown  rob¬ 
ber  baron  over  in  Italy  changed  the  whole 
course  of  the  world’s  commerce  and  even 
history;  and  it  all  happened  because  a 
scoundrelly  Frenchman  couldn’t  keep  his 
hands  off  a  gal !  Can  you  beat  that  1” 

"I  don’t  believe  it,”  was  my  weak 
response.  Haberlein  leaned  forward. 

“I'll  prove  it  to  you.  Leghorn,  at  that 
time,  was  one  of  the  greatest  free  ports 
in  the  world,  the  greatest  center  of  com¬ 
merce  in  the  Mediterranean;  even  the 
Moslem  merchants  could  come  there  un¬ 
molested.  The  English,  however,  had 
settled  Leghorn  heavily  and  were  in  prac¬ 
tical  control  of  commerce  there.  Leghorn 
was  in  the  territory  of  Tuscany,  ruled  by 
the  Grand  Duke,  one  of  the  fast  of  the  old 
Medici  family.  Got  it?” 

I  nodded.  He  shoved  aside  my  papers, 
spread  himself  on  the  desk,  and  pitched  in. 

‘‘That's  just  the  background.  France 


hated  and  feared  England ;  the  war  for  all 
the  commerce  of  the  east  was  on,  but  it 
remained  underground.  With  that  in 
mind,  I  want  you  to  look  at  the  Italian 
coast,  at  the  highway  north  of  Leghorn 
and  Florence.  I  want  to  make  you  see  the 
man  who  was  whipping  his  horse  along, 
riding  hell  for  leather,  in  a  late  afternoon. 
He  was  only  a  short  distance  outside  the 
town  of  Corthia,  for  which  he  was  mak¬ 
ing—” 

The  magic  of  that  voice  persuaded  me, 
moved  me.  haunted  me.  The  yellow  spurt¬ 
ing  dust  of  the  road,  the  chestnut  trees, 
the  sharp  Italian  hills,  uprose  before  me. 
And  the  man,  who  with  whip  and  spur 
urged  his  lathered,  wheezing  horse  along 
the  curving  road. 

A  little  man,  ferret-nosed,  with  very 
wide  shoulders  and  very  long  arms,  and  in 
his  sharp  features  a  peculiar  deadly  ex¬ 
pression.  At  an  inbend  of  the  road,  the 
Tavern  of  the  Black  Bull  suddenly  ap¬ 
peared,  and  a  sigh  of  relief  escaped  him. 

It  was  a  pleasant  inn,  to  anyone  who 
knew  not  its  evil  name,  with  high  oak 
trees  shading  the  courtyard  from  the  hot 
Italian  sun.  A  structure  half  of  outward 
stone,  half  built  into  the  steep  hillside. 

The  staggering  horse  clattered  to  a  halt 
in  the  courtyard,  the  rider  slid  down.  No 
grooms  came  forth;  no  one  was  in  sight 
save  the  innkeeper,  a  burly  man  who  stood 
in  the  entrance  and  emitted  a  cheery  but 
wary  word  of  greeting. 

“Welcome,  Ser  Nicolo!  Whether  pur¬ 
suing  or  pursued,  you’ve  come  to  the  right 
place!  Are  you  followed  ?” 

“No,  blast  you !  Do  I  have  to  be  a  fugi¬ 
tive  because  I’m  riding  hard?"  The  little 
man,  not  so  little  now  that  he  stood  on  his 
feet,  stumbled  stiffly  across  the  stones. 
“A  fresh  horse,  quickly!  I  must  reach 
Duke  Raymond  of  Corthia  at  once !” 


THE  COASTS  OF  CHANCE 


"You’ll  do  that  without  killing  another 
horse."  "The  duke  will  be  here  at  any 
moment ;  he’s  overdue  now.  He’s  riding 
out  from  town  on  business.” 

"The  usual  business,  eh  ?  Good  !*’  Ser 
Nicolo  dapped  the  other  on  the  shoulder. 
"Inside !  You’re  going  to  have  business 
and  plenty  of  it,  in  another  hour  or 
less.” 

In  the  vast,  gloomy  ordinary  of  that 
sinister  inn,  Ser  Nicolo  settled  himself 
comfortably  at  a  table,  opposite  the 
innkeeper. 

"What  news?”  the  latter  demanded. 
Ser  Nicolo  gulped  down  his  wine  and 
grunted. 

"For  Raymond,  not  for  you." 

"Careful,  Ser  Nicolo!”  said  the  burly 
man.  "You  may  be  the  most  famous 
spadassin  in  Italy,  your  stiletto  the 
highest  priced  and  surest  but  after  all, 
you’re  a  hired  bravo.  This  is  Duke 
Raymond’s  tavern,  and  I’m  in  his  con¬ 
fidence.” 

Ser  Nicolo  grinned  faintly.  "True. 
News?  Well,  Cromwell  rules  in  Eng¬ 
land,  Mazarin  rules  France  for  the  boy 
Louis,  and  Raymond  rules  in  Corthia. 
A  fine  weapon,  a  fine  gem,  a  fine  woman 
— Raymond  welcomes  any  of  the  three. 
I  bring  him  jewels  and  a  woman — the 
daughter  of  a  Genoese  merchant  and 
her  lover,  a  puling  Frenchman.  They’ll 
be  here  in  an  hour.  Enough  said?" 

"Enough,  aye!  Hello,  here's  Fran¬ 
cesco  now;  his  job  must  be  finished.” 

SOMEWHERE  in  the  cavernous  re¬ 
cesses  of  the  place,  whose  immense 
oak  beams  were  black  with  age  and 
smoke,  a  massive  door  creaked  open. 
A  low,  shuddering  sound  echoed  faint¬ 
ly;  the  groans  of  a  man  in  mortal 
agony.  A  swaggering  figure  came  for¬ 
ward  to  the  table,  a  stout  fellow  whose 
bare  forearms  and  leathern  apron  were 


47 

splashed  with  ominous  crimson;  he 
flung  down  a  folded  parchment. 

"There  it  is,  signed  and  sealed  and 
witnessed,”  he  said.  The  innkeeper 
took  it. 

"A  good  thing  for  you  Raymond  is 
late!  You’ve  been  slow." 

“I  had  to  string  up  the  stubborn 
devil  three  times  and  then  go  to  work 
on  him  with  hot  pincers,”  said  Fran¬ 
cesco.  "But  he  gave  in  at  last.  He 
can  still  walk.” 

"Give  him  a  horse  and  turn  him 
loose.  Then  tell  Maria  to  prepare  the 
big  upper  chamber;  guests  are  com¬ 
ing.  Is  the  meal  ready  for  Duke  Ray¬ 
mond?1' 

“Aye.  And  speak  of  the  devil— there 
he  is!” 

A  clatter  of  hooves  from  the  court¬ 
yard,  a  ringing,  impetuous  voice;  the 
host  went  rushing  out,  grooms  ap¬ 
peared  from  nowhere,  and  the  Black 
Bull  took  on  life.  Ser  Nicolo  gulped 
hastily  at  his  wine  and  stood  up  to 
meet  the  man  he  served. 

Raymond  of  Corthia  strode  in,  bid¬ 
ding  his  half-dozen  guards  make  them¬ 
selves  scarce  in  the  kitchens.  He  took 
the  parchment,  glanced  at  it,  and 
tucked  it  away  with  a  nod.  He  looked 
at  Ser  Nicolo,  and  came  eagerly  to  him, 
like  a  hawk  pouncing. 

"What’s  this?  You,  Nicolo?  Corpo 
di  Bacchol  I  thought  you  were  in 
Genoa !” 

Ser  Nicolo  bowed ;  greatest  assassin 
in  Italy  he  might  be,  but  to  Raymond 
of  Corthia  he  was  mightily  respectful, 
and  with  reason. 

Ruler  of  a  tiny  hill-estate  that  was 
no  more  than  a  town,  with  a  few  square 
miles  outside  it,  Raymond  was  slim 
and  straight  and  powerful ;  no  man 
could  stand  before  him  with  wit  or 
weapons,  and  none  had  ever  found 


48 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


“I  had  ID  siring  up  the  stubborn  devil  three 
times  and  then,  go  to  work  on  him  with  hot 
pincers.” 


mercy  at  his  hands.  His  dark  features 
were  all  alive  with  a  cruel  and  mock¬ 
ing  energy.  No  woman,  it  was  said, 
could  resist  his  gay  spirit  and  his  crafty 
tongue.  He  was  feared,  dreaded,  hated, 
from  the  Alps  to  Tarentum,  and  no  one 
dared  lift  finger  against  him.  From 
Venice  to  Naples,  the  threads  of  poli¬ 
tical  intrigue  were  in  his  hands,  and 
he  pulled  them  shrewdly  ;  ambassadors 
were  sent  to  him  as  to  a  king,  for  his 
counsel  and  help.  He  was  behind  the 
scenes  on  many  a  stage,  but  was  still 
ruled  by  three  passions  greater  to  him 
than  any  ambition. 

"So!  Something’s  up,  eh?"  He  swung 
a  chair  around,  sat  down,  poured  wine 
and  sipped  it.  "Weapons,  jewels  or 
women  ?" 

Ser  Nicolo  repeated  his  story.  Ray¬ 


mond  listened ;  he  was  clad  all  in  black, 
with  a  bulk  to  his  shoulders  that  hinted 
at  chain  mail  under  the  black  velvet. 

“I  didn't  see  the  woman ;  I  hear  she’s 
fair  and  young,"  concluded  Ser  Nicolo. 
“But  the  two  of  them  skipped  out  with 
all  the  old  man’s  jewels — the  finest  lot 
of  gems  in  all  Genoa,  I  hear.  They’re 
headed  for  Rome.  The  Frenchman  is 
some  sort  of  soldier;  he  speaks  Italian." 

Raymond  frowned  slightly.  "Hra! 
That's  curious.  The  Grand  Duke  of 
Tuscany  has  been  fool  enough  to  dis¬ 
regard  my  advice,  and  let  Mazarin 
cozen  him  into  turning  the  English 
out  of  Leghorn;  do  away  with  all  free 
trade  and  put  Leghorn  into  the  hands 
of  French  merchants.  I’ve  been  ex¬ 
pecting  some  courier  from  Paris — well, 
well,  this  would  hardly  be  the  man,  if 
he’s  running  away  with  a  Genoese 
damsel!  Nicolo,  we’ll  handle  this  lit¬ 
tle  matter  ourselves,  you  and  I.” 

"Gladly,  my  lord,”  and  Ser  Nicolo 
smiled  in  his  thin  face.  "Their  coach¬ 
man  is  my  man.  That  leaves  the 
Frenchman  alone.  Shall  I  dispose  of 
him?” 

“Not  before  I  give  the  signal,”  Ray¬ 
mond  glanced  up,  as  the  inukeeper  ap¬ 
proached.  “Dinner?  Not  yet.  In  half 
an  hour;  I'll  have  two  guests  to  join 
me.  Get  the  board  ready.  Keep  those 
men  of  mine  out  of  sight,  and  don’t 
let  them  drink  too  much.  I  may  need 
them.  Bring  a  flask  or  two  of  my  own 
wine.  Ha,  Nicolo!  You  know  steel. 
Look  at  this!  A  gift  from  the  Grand 
Duke  at  Florence,  to  make  up  to  me 
for  disregarding  my  counsel.  The  old 
fool !  Think  what  the  Medici  have 
come  to,  that  such  a  man  should  rule 
Tuscany  !*’ 

He  whipped  out  his  sword  from  its 
sheath  and  Nicolo  took  the  long 
straight  blade,  eyeing  it  shrewdly.  A 


THE  COASTS  OF  CHANCE 


49 


beautiful  piece  of  steel,  with  the  water¬ 
ed  markings  of  damascened  work,  in¬ 
laid  along  one  side  of  the  blade  with  an 
Arabic  inscription  in  gold.  The  eyes 
of  Ser  Nicolo  glittered,  and  Raymond 
laughed  softly. 

"You  like  it?  Then,  in  testimony  of 
my  love  for  you,  keep  it  I”  Raymond 
unbuckled  the  belt,  passed  it  and  the 
scabbard  across  the  table.  "No,  I  in¬ 
sist!  You  need  a  sword,  Nicolo.  My 
dagger  is  all  I  need.” 

He  touched  the  extremely  long 
poniard  at  his  right  hip.  Ser  Nicolo 
gulped  out  his  thanks  for  the  princely 
gift  and  waxed  warm  in  his  enthusi¬ 
asm.  The  eyes  of  Raymond  dwelt 
upon  the  man  for  an  instant,  a  touch 
of  cruel  amusement  in  their  dark 
depths,  then  flitted  to  the  table  that 
was  being  set  with  linen  and  silver  and 
Venetian  glass — strange  treasures  to 
And  in  a  roadside  inn !  But  then,  the 
Black  Bull  was  a  strange  place. 

A  MAN  from  outside  came  running 
in;  the  coach  was  approaching 
and  men  were  posted  to  stop  it  if  need 
were.  Raymond  rose  and  sauntered 
outside.  There  was  a  creaking,  a 
rumble  and  a  squeak  of  brakes,  a  bang¬ 
ing  of  hooves;  a  coach  with  four 
horses  appeared  and  swung  into  the 
inn-yard.  The  driver  was  a  gangling 
fellow  with  the  scarred  features  of  a 
bravo,  and  shaggy  red  hair  dangling 
about  his  ears;  a  rogue,  thought  Ray¬ 
mond,  and  a  rascal. 

The  coach  door  opened.  A  man  in 
dark  but  handsome  attire  leaped  out 
and  burst  into  vehement  French,  to 
which  the  driver  replied;  master  and 
man.  Raymond  gathered.  As  the 
driver  pointed  out,  one  horse  was  lame. 
Perhaps  another  could  be  procured 
here.  The  Frenchman  turned  to  the 


innkeeper,  who  swore  that  extra  horses 
were  rare  as  green  cheese  from  the 
moon.  Then  Raymond  stepped  for¬ 
ward,  with  his  graceful,  gallant  bow. 

“Your  pardon  I”  he  said,  in  his  most 
charming  way.  “I'm  named  Messire 
Raymond,  I'm  a  gentleman  of  Corthia, 
and  if  you’ll  do  me  the  honor  of  join¬ 
ing  me  at  dinner,  it'll  give  me  the  great¬ 
est  pleasure  in  the  world !  The  food  here 
is  superb,  I  assure  you.  The  beds  are 
like  those  of  the  blessed  saints  in  Para¬ 
dise,  The  sun  is  sinking — why  go  far¬ 
ther  and  fare  worse?” 

The  Frenchman’s  face  cleared.  A 
face  that  looked  young  but  was  not ;  a 
face  outwardly  handsome,  but  to  Ray¬ 
mond's  shrewd  eye  full  of  craft  and 
guile  and  braggadocio. 

"Why.  messire,  thank  you!”  he  an¬ 
swered  in  Italian.  “I'm  the  Sieur  de 
Castelmore,  a  gentleman  of  Gascony, 
traveling  with  my  wife  to  Rome.  If 
this  place  is  safe — ” 

"I  know  of  none  safer  in  all  Italy,” 
said  Raymond,  smiling.  "Let  your  wife 
join  us,  and  our  happiness  is  complete  1 
Perhaps  she’d  like  to  judge  of  the  ac¬ 
commodations.  Landlord!  Your  best 
room  for  my  friends;  they’ll  join  me  at 
dinner,  so  prepare  accordingly!” 

The  graceful  assurance  of  Raymond 
settled  everything,  as  it  usually  did. 
A  man  used  to  having  his  way,  nearly 
always  has  it. 

The  Frenchman,  he  noted,  wore  a 
long,  plain  rapier;  then  he  observed 
nothing  else,  as  Castelmore  handed  out 
his  traveling  companion  and  presented 
Raymond  to  her. 

She  was  tired;  as  she  said  frankly, 
they  had  traveled  fast  and  hard  since 
leaving  Genoa.  Yet  she  was  radiant, 
lovely  as  a  flower,  so  instinct  with 
youth  and  character  and  nobility  that 
Raymond  was  actually  stupefied  for  a 


50 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


moment.  When  he  stooped  his  lips  to 
her  fingers,  did  they  gently  press  his 
own  ?  When  he  looked  into  her  eyes, 
did  a  flash  of  appeal  strike  out  at  him? 
He  was  not  certain;  but  for  an  instant 
his  heart  leaped  high.  Debauched,  de¬ 
praved,  callous  as  he  was  to  all  fine 
things,  here  in  this  girl’s  face  and  eyes 
and  voice  was  something  that  stirred 
forgotten  memories  within  hint. 

He  conducted  them  to  the  stairs.  She 
was  holding  a  leather  casket  beneath 
her  arm,  as  though  it  were  precious. 
Beneath  the  dark  coat  of  Castclmore 
was  a  bulge,  as  though  something  pre¬ 
cious  lay  there.  Promising  to  be  back 
in  five  minutes,  they  departed  with  the 
host  to  seek  their  room,  and  Raymond 
went  striding  back  to  Ser  Nicolo. 

“My  good  Nicolo,  you're  positively  a 
fool  for  once/’  he  snapped.  "That  man 
is  a  scoundrel ;  he  looks  young  and  is 
not.  The  lady  is  an  angel !  Ten  to  one 
he’s  tricked  her  by  promises  of  mar¬ 
riage,  into  leaving  home  with  her  jew¬ 
els.  She’s  no  common  merchant’s 
daughter,  if  I  know  anything  of  char¬ 
acter.” 

Ser  Nicolo  shrugged.  “Her  jewels, 
and  herself  as  well,  may  be  better  in 
your  keeping  than  in  his,  then.” 

“Right.  Keep  your  eye  on  me.  When 
I  overturn  my  glass,  go  to  work  on  the 
rogue  and  blood  your  new  blade.  Mind 
you,  no  foolishness !  Kill  him  and  have 
done.” 

“With  all  my  heart,”  said  Ser  Nicolo, 
his  lip  twisting  wolfishly.  Killing  was 
his  trade. 

From  the  hidden  kitchens  in  the  rear, 
which  were  used  in  summer,  came  fowl 
and  meat  fresh  from  the  spits,  fruit  of 
the  earth  and  the  tree,  bread  and  sauces 
galore;  a  very  banquet  to  be  heaped 
along  the  board,  with  rare  wines  from 
the  private  stores  of  Raymond.  Out¬ 


side,  the  setting  sun  reddened  and  died. 
Inside,  silver  candelabra  were  brought 
out  and  set  along  the  table,  blazing 
with  candles  of  the  finest  wax  that 
gently  perfumed  the  air  as  they  burned. 

Ser  Nicolo  departed  to  wash.  The 
burly  host  came  up  to  Duke  Raymond 
with  a  low  word. 

“Lord,  next  time  you  have  a  fine 
sword  to  give  away,  remember  me.” 

“What?”  Raymond  looked  up  at  him 
and  suddenly  broke  into  laughter.  “But 
not  such  a  sword  as  that,  my  honest 
friend !  That  was  a  gift  from  the  Grand 
Duke  Ferdinand  himself;  and  when 
the  Medici  send  gifts,  it  pays  to  look 
well  at  them.  Ser  Nicolo,  unluckily 
for  himself,  did  not  look  too  well ;  and, 
still  more  unluckily,  has  wormed  him¬ 
self  into  too  many  of  my  secrets,  and 
his  sold  one  or  two  of  them  to  the 
Duke  of  Mantua.” 

DONNA  LUISA,  as  the  girl  was 
named,  looked  more  radiant  than 
ever;  she  had  donned  a  dress  of  sky- 
blue  velvet  sewn  with  seed  pearls, 
which  rarely  became  her  delicate,  frag¬ 
ile  loveliness,  her  pale  golden  hair 
and  unafraid  blue  eyes.  Raymond  in¬ 
troduced  Ser  Nicolo  as  a  gentleman  of 
Padua,  and  the  four  sat  down  to  the 
board,  Castelmore  and  his  lady  oppo¬ 
site  Raymond  and  Ser  Nicolo.  If  the 
Frenchman  was  not  amazed  at  sight  of 
the  Venetian  glasses,  a  treasure  such 
as  only  kings  could  know,  the  girl  cer¬ 
tainly  was. 

With  every  passing  moment,  Ray¬ 
mond’s  admiration  became  more  pro¬ 
found.  The  girl  was  more  French  than 
Italian;  she  had  an  amazing  grasp  of 
practical  things,  even  politics,  and  her 
swift  intelligence  delighted  him.  Talk¬ 
ing,  he  learned  she  had  spent  six 
months  in  Paris,  with  the  family  of 


THE  COASTS  OF  CHANCE 


51 


Cardinal  Mazarin.  Her  father,  it 
seemed,  had  known  Mazarin.  Why  had 
she  left  Paris?  At  his  question,  she 
hesitated,  slightly  confused. 

“The  customs,  the  life — well,  it  was 
distasteful.”  Her  clear,  pure  eyes  rest¬ 
ed  upon  him.  In  them  he  caught  an¬ 
other  flash  of  appeal,  almost  of  terror. 
“There,  they  think  all  women  are  alike, 
given  to  loose  ways—” 

“Come,  come,  women  were  made  for 
love!”  intervened  Castelmore.  He  did 
not  appreciate  Raymond's  intense  in¬ 
terest  in  the  girl ;  he  made  the  fact 
plain.  So,  upon  a  smile,  Raymond  sud¬ 
denly  turned  all  his  attention  to  the 
Gascon,  with  subtle  flattery. 

"You’ve  been  in  Paris?  At  court, 
perhaps?  Yes,  you  have  the  manner 
of  a  courtier.  Tell  me,  what’s  the  gos¬ 
sip  about  the  plans  between  our  Grand 
Duke  and  Mazarin— putting  Leghorn 
into  French  hands?  Come,  come,  it’s 
no  secret  here!  I  know  all  about  it, 
and  so  do  you.” 

The  wine  was  ardent,  and  Castel¬ 
more  was  presently  persuaded  to  talk. 
He  had  thought  the  new  treaty  was  a 
state  secret,  but  since  it  was  not — 

“It’s  a  tremendous  stroke  of  busi¬ 
ness!”  be  exclaimed.  “For  centuries 
Leghorn  has  been  a  free  port.  The 
English  are  securely  entrenched  there. 
Now  that'll  be  changed ;  out  they  go, 
and  the  Dutch  as  well!  It  means  that 
the  entire  balance  of  trade  and  com¬ 
merce  in  the  Mediterranean  will  be  al¬ 
tered,  will  be  swung  to  France!” 

"It  means  more  than  that,"  Duke 
Raymond  said  softly.  “It  means  war! 
The  English  will  stir  up  Venice,  Rome 
and  other  states  against  Tuscany.  The 
French  will  go  to  war.  Armies  will  be 
inarching  through  Italy — and  J  do  not 
like  that.  It  will  be  bad  business  for 
me.  I  should  tike  to  stop  this  treaty.” 


The  Gascon  bellowed  with  laughter. 
“You,  stop  the  diplomacy  of  France? 
That’s  a  good  one!  You,  change  the 
plans  of  Mazarin?  That’s  rich!  No, 
no,  my  friend!  The  Cardinal  has  al¬ 
ready  arranged  with  your  Grand  Duke, 
has  approved  the  proposals,  has  draft¬ 
ed  with  his  own  hand  the  final  terms! 
Once  approved  by  your  Grand  Duke, 
the  French  envoy  in  Florence  will  set¬ 
tle  the  matter  and  draw  up  the  treaty. 
Then  the  fat’s  in  the  fire,  eh?  And  you 
talk  of  stopping  it  I  As  well  stop  the 
finger  of  destiny!” 

“Perhaps,”  said  Duke  Raymond, 
smiling,  "even  that  is  not  beyond  my 
power.”  and  with  his  hand  he  knocked 
over  his  priceless  Venetian  glass,  and 
broke  it. 

Just  what  happened  was  not  very 
clear,  at  least  to  the  staring,  bewil¬ 
dered,  quivering  Donna  Luisa;  but  to 
the  cynically  amused  Raymond,  it  was 
clear  as  daylight.  Castelmore,  like  all 
Gascons,  was  a  swelling  fount  of  brag¬ 
gadocio.  Ser  Nicolo  was  gentle,  but 
terrible  and  deadly  as  a  viper.  Words 
rose  high,  and  Ser  Nicolo  slapped  the 
Gascon  across  the  face;  with  this,  steel 
scraped  out  of  scabbard. 

Donna  Luisa  cried  frantic  protest, 
but  Raymond's  fingers  clamped  down 
on  her  wrist,  his  smiling,  intent  eyes 
pierced  into  hers,  his  voice  gripped  at  her, 

“Quiet,  madonna,  quiet!  He  is  not 
your  husband.  Didn’t  you  ask  to  be 
relieved  of  him?  Well,  keep  your 
mouth  shut  and  see  what  happens.” 

What  happened  was  that  honor  de¬ 
manded  blood ;  and  all  was  done  very 
courteously,  as  between  gentlemen.  At 
Duke  Raymond’s  suggestion,  the  two 
doffed  doublets  and  went  to  the  wide 
hearth,  before  the  great  spits  that  were 
not  used  in  summer;  and,  again  at  his 
word,  the  steel  crossed  and  clanered. 


52 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


Silent,  pale  as  death,  the  girl  watched. 

The  art  of  fence  was  not,  in  this  day, 
greatly  practiced.  It  was  cut  and  come 
again,  sword  in  one  hand,  dagger  in  the 
Dther;  steel  was  made  for  killing,  not 
for  the  light  fantasy  of  fencing.  The 
Gascon  was  a  shrewd,  strong,  master¬ 
ful  swordsman,  but  the  eye  of  Ray¬ 
mond  saw  that  Ser  Nicolo,  with  his 
long  arms  and  nimble  skill,  was  the 
better  man  at  this  business. 

’’r'HEY  fought,  with  mounting  flame 
l  of  fierce  rage,  with  clash  of  steel 
ind  rasp  of  hot  oaths — and  suddenly 
there  was  a  snap,  a  clang,  a  wild  cry. 
Ser  Nicolo’s  blade  flew  asunder;  the 
Gascon's  long  steel  drove  past  his 
guarding  poniard,  drove  through  his 
throat,  and  stood  out  a  span  behind  the 
nape  of  his  neck. 

“Ah  1”  observed  Duke  Raymond,  on 


the  sudden  silence.  *'I  was  right.  That 
gold  inlay  did  extend  too  far  through 
the  steel ;  it's  very  lucky  I  was  not 
using  that  sword  myself !  That  is, 
lucky  for  me.  Unlucky,  let  us  say,  for 
the  Grand  Duke,  who  gave  it  to  me.” 

He  glanced  around.  The  innkeeper 
was  standing  among  the  shadows, 
watching  the  proceedings.  At  a  slight 
gesture  from  Raymond,  he  disappeared. 

Castelmore.  panting,  freed  his  weap¬ 
on,  He  wiped  it  and  slid  it  into  his 
scabbard. 

"The  devil!”  he  exclaimed.  "Now 
I’ve  killed  the  rascal !” 

"You  certainly  have,”  said  Raymond 
coolly.  "And  there’s  a  law  in  Cortliia 
that  anyone  who  kills  a  man  in  duel, 
is  hanged  by  the  neck  until  he’s  very, 
very  dead.” 

The  Gascon  stared  at  him  from  blood¬ 
shot  eyes. 


THE  COASTS  OF  CHANCE 


“It  was  forced  upon  me!”  he  burst 
out.  “Besides,  no  such  law  applies  to 
me.  I’m  not  a  subject  of  Corthia.  I 
enjoy  diplomatic  immunity!  I  bear  a 
message  from  the  court  of  France  to 
the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany!  Letters 
to  the  Grand  Duke  himself!" 

“So  I  thought."  said  Raymond  pleas¬ 
antly.  “It's  nice  to  have  the  question 
settled.  But  all  the  same,  the  law  ap¬ 
plies  to  you.” 

There  was  a  stir  In  the  shadowed 
recesses  of  the  great  room.  Figures 
appeared ;  armed  men  came  forward. 
Two  of  them  held  pistols,  and  advanced 
upon  either  side  of  the  Gascon,  and  the 
pistols  were  cocked. 

“Your  sword,  messire,”  said  a  third, 
coming  up  behind  Castelmore. 

The  latter  knew  himself  trapped  and 
lost.  He  glared,  helpless;  he  found 
frantic  voice. 

"I  thought  there  was  something 
queer  about  all  this!  Who  are  you? 
Who  arc  these  men?  What  does  it  all 
mean  ?’’ 

Raymond  smiled.  “It  means  that  the 
law  of  Corthia  is  enforced,  for  I  am 
the  law — I,  Duke  Raymond  of  Corthia! 
Take  him  outside  and  hang  him,  and 
do  it  quickly.  But  first,  give  me  the 
folded  packet  that  is  under  his  shirt.” 

The  packet  of  papers  was  given  him. 
Donna  Luisa,  staring  at  him  with  eyes 
of  horror,  uttered  one  shrill  cry  of  pro¬ 
test  and  appeal — it  ended  in  a  gasp,  and 
she  fell  back  in  her  chair,  in  a  dead 
faint. 

The  Gascon,  bellowing  curses,  was 
dragged  out.  Raymond  glanced  at  the 
innkeeper. 

“Where  is  that  man  of  mine,  Mario, 
the  scrivener?  Drunk,  as  usual?” 

“Well  on  the  road,  lord.” 

“Hold  his  head  in  the  horse-trough, 
sober  him.  send  him  here.” 


53 

Cutting  with  his  stiletto  the  silk  cord 
bound  about  the  documents,  Raymond 
laid  them  out.  Here  was  the  passport 
of  Sieur  de  Castelmore,  a  lengthy  vel¬ 
lum  signed  in  the  sprawling  boyish 
hand  of  the  French  king.  Here  were 
other  documents  in  Italian,  which  had 
been  sent  to  Mazarin  from  Florence; 
these  were  sealed  again  with  the  Car¬ 
dinal’s  seal.  And  lastly  was  a  letter 
addressed  to  the  Grand  Duke  in  the 
Cardinal’s  hand,  also  sealed  with  Ma- 
zarin’s  seal.  Raymond  eyed  them,  and 
reflected,  half  aloud. 

“Hm !  Suppose  I  turn  all  these  over 
to  the  Venetians  or  the  English — at 
least,  threaten  to  do  so?  The  Grand 
Duke  might  or  might  not  be  forced  to 
give  up  the  scheme.  He's  a  stubborn 
old  devil,  though,  and  these  Medici  are 
all  tricky — hm !  No,  the  safest  w*ay  is 
to  make  him  so  utterly  and  absolutely 
furious  at  the  worthy  Cardinal  Mazarin 
that  he’ll  drop  the  whole  affair." 

A  spluttering,  dripping,  white  faced 
figure  shambled  forward;  this  was  the 
scribe,  Mario,  once  a  clever  man,  now 
an  arrant  rogue.  Two  others  came  in, 
lifted  the  body  of  Ser  Nicolo,  and  bore 
it  away. 

Raymond  rose,  quaffed  his  wine,  and 
stooped  above  the  figure  of  the  uncon¬ 
scious  girl.  Admiration  glowed  in  his 
eyes.  He  leaned  down  and  gently 
brushed  her  cheek  with  his  lips,  and 
straightened  up. 

“Is  she  not  a  precious,  lovely  thing, 
Mario?  Like  a  tender  flower.  She’s 
lost  a  poor  lover  this  night,  and  gained 
a  better  one;  truly,  the  dispensations 
of  Providence  are  wonderful!  Well, 
well,  to  business.  You  have  vellum,  I 
think,  and  ink,  and  brains?  We  need  them, 
Mario.  We’ve  used  your  clever  brains 
often,  and  now  must  use  them  again.” 

“At— at  your  service,  lord,”  fumbled 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


54 

out  the  scrivener.  Duke  Raymond 
picked  up  the  sealed  letter. 

’’Remove  the  outer  sea!  very  care¬ 
fully,  without  breaking  it,  so  we  can 
use  it  again.  This  letter  is  doubtless 
in  the  hand  of  a  secretary;  Cardinal 
Mazarin  is  an  Italian,  and  it  will  be 
written  in  Italian,  being  for  the  eye  of 
the  Grand  Duke  himself.  Now,  get  to 
work.  There’ll  be  an  inner  seal,  so  be 
mindful  of  that  also;  it  will  bear  the 
Lilies  of  France,  and  we  must  be  very 
careful  of  such  precious  flowers.  Copy 
ail  the  preamble  of  the  letter;  when 
you  reach  the  body  of  it,  bring  them 
both  to  me  and  I'll  dictate  what’s  to 
be  said.” 

M  ARIO  took  the  vellum  and  de¬ 
parted.  Duke  Raymond  pock¬ 
eted  the  other  documents,  and  with  a 
sigh  of  satisfaction,  laid  aside  the  mat¬ 
ter  temporarily.  He  went  again  to 
the  girl,  lifted  her  head,  and  poured 
a  swallow  of  wine  between  her  lips. 
She  choked,  and  sat  up,  staring  around. 
Then,  meeting  his  eyes,  she  shrank  in 
sudden  memory. 

"No,  no — it  must  have  been  a  dream  1 
Where  is  he?” 

"Hanged,”  said  Raymond  amiably. 
"And  good  riddance  to  you,  also  to  the 
world.” 

"But  you — you !”  She  stared  wild 
eyed,  her  bosom  rising  and  falling  to 
sharp  breaths.  “You  can’t  be  that 
frightful  man,  that  beast,  of  whom  all 
Italy  has  heard !  You  can’t  be  Duke 
Raymond;  the  murderer,  the  ravisher, 
the  soulless  betrayer  of  everything  and 
everyone!  The  brother  of  Satan  him¬ 
self,  they  call  him !” 

"No,  my  dear,  no.  If  I  were  Satan’s 
brother,  then  I’d  assuredly  be  an  angel  1 
However,  I’m  Raymond  of  Corthia, 
and  I  love  you,” 


She  started.  "Love?  Oh,  you  foul 
beast  I” 

“Ah,  but  listen  1”  said  he,  and  began 
to  speak  very  earnestly,  of  himself  and 
his  life  and  the  charges  against  him; 
of  good  and  evil,  of  lust  and  of  love, 
and  of  many  things  beside. 

Now,  there  was  this  about  Raymond 
of  Corthia :  By  the  magic  of  his  tongue 
he  had  the  power  of  charming  man, 
woman  or  beast,  and  could  make  white 
seem  any  color  he  desired,  and  could 
bring  tears  to  the  sternest  eyes.  When 
he  was  excommunicate  and  with  a  price 
of  ten  thousand  scudi  on  his  head  for 
the  murder  of  his  brother,  did  he  not 
steal  unknown  into  Rome,  gain  audi¬ 
ence  with  the  Holy  Father,  and  in  half 
an  hour  convince  him  that  Raymond 
of  Corthia  was  an  innocent  man  ?  And 
it  is  well  known  how  he  cozened  the 
Duke  of  Milan,  who  had  wounded  and 
captured  him,  into  becoming  for  a  lit¬ 
tle  while  his  greatest  friend  and  ally. 

Thus,  it  might  be  expected  that  this 
guileless  girl  would  straightway  yield 
to  his  magic  and,  like  all  other  women, 
become  his  loving  victim;  but  to  his 
great  astonishment  she  did  not. 

True,  she  became  quiet,  calm, 
thoughtful;  she  lost  her  resentment 
and  horror ;  she  even  smiled  a  little  and 
suffered  the  touch  of  his  hand  on  hers, 
and  sipped  her  wine.  Yet,  when  he 
looked  into  her  eyes.  Raymond  found 
there  something  cool  and  beautiful  and 
assured,  which  entirely  baffled  him.  It 
was  like  a  piece  of  shining  mail  which 
the  keenest  sword  could  not  pierce. 

‘T’ve  heard  many  terrible  things 
about  you,  Duke  Raymond,”  she  said 
quietly,  when  he  paused.  "It’s  said 
that  you  have  an  unbridled  passion  for 
fine  weapons,  for  glowing  jewels,  for 
lovely  women.  I  should  be  afraid  of 
you ;  but  I  am  not.” 


THE  COASTS  OF  CHANCE 


55 


And  she  was  not,  as  he  perceived. 
"Then.”  he  said  quickly,  "you  like  me 
a  little?” 

"I  do  not  like  you  at  all.”  she  replied 
calmly.  "I  met  the  Sieur  de  Castel- 
more  when  I  was  in  Paris;  and  it 
seemed  I  was  in  love  with  him.  He 
came  to  Genoa,  stayed  three  days,  and 
persuaded  me  to  fly  with  him.  Then, 
too  late,  I  discovered  that  he  was  an 
arrant  rascal,  seeking  only  to  beguile 
me  and  steal  my  jewels.  Yet  I  think  I 
was  far  safer  with  that  man,  than  I 
am  with  you.” 

"Sweet  dove,  I’d  not  harm  you  for 
the  world!”  protested  Raymond.  She 
looked  at  him,  unsmiling.  "Sec,  now! 
I’ve  rid  you  of  that  scoundrel.  When 
you  came  here,  when  I  met  you,  I  read 
the  appeal  in  your  eyes.” 

"I  thought  you  were  a  gentleman,” 
she  said  quietly.  “Those  jewels  arc  all 
I  have  in  the  world;  take  them,  keep 
them,  if  you’ll  let  me  go  back  to 
Genoa.” 

"Tomorrow?”  he  said  quickly. 

"Now.” 

A  laugh  touched  his  lips.  "No,  lit¬ 
tle  dove!  I’ve  not  seen  the  jewels; 
but  I’ve  seen  you,  and  you're  the  most 
precious  jewel  of  all.  You’ve  brought 
me  the  greatest  luck  in  the  world.  If 
that  Gascon  had  kept  his  hands  off  you, 
I’d  never  have  caught  him.  I  have  spies 
watching  for  any  courier  from  Paris, 
and  they  failed  completely;  they  did 
not  even  dream  he  was  the  courier, 
nor  at  first  did  I.  But  see!  He’s 
hanged.  War  and  armies  are  averted, 
the  wily  Mazarm’s  plans  arc  spoiled. 
You’re  here,  and  you  shall  go  to  Corthta 
with  me,  and  love  me  as  I  love  you!” 

The  scrivener  Mario  came  shuffling 
forward,  and  laid  before  Raymond  two 
sheets  of  fine  vellum.  One  was  the 
letter  from  Mazarin,  denuded  of  its 


seals;  the  other,  identical  in  size,  was 
that  on  which  he  had  copied  the  pre¬ 
amble  of  the  letter, 

Raymond  scrutinized  them  both,  and 
his  eye  lit  up.  The  forgery  was  perfect. 

"Mario,  you’re  a  jewel !  Finish  this 
task,  and  you  shall  be  drunk  for  a 
month,  and  wench  yourself  to  death  if 
you’ve  a  mind!  You’ve  a  quill  and 
ink?  Take  down  what  I  want  written 
in  the  tetter;  and  mind  you  copy  Ma- 
zarin’s  signature  with  care!” 

He  dictated  what  he  desired  the 
French  Cardinal  to  say  to  the  Grand 
Duke  of  Tuscany,  and  laughed  softly 
as  he  dictated.  It  was  a  letter  which 
abandoned  all  thought  of  the  Leghorn 
scheme,  a  letter  so  filled  with  con¬ 
temptuous  insult  and  sly  thrusts  as 
to  drive  the  prince  of  the  Medici  into 
a  foaming  fury. 

And  all  the  while,  Donna  Luisa  sat, 
sipping  her  wine,  and  listened. 

“That’s  all,”  concluded  Raymond. 
“Faith,  the  Grand  Duke  will  be  purple 
in  the  face  when  he  reads  it!  Seek 
that  rascal,  Jean  Gontter,  of  my  guards, 
and  send  him  here.  He’s  a  Frenchman 
— or  was — and  has  a  nimble  wit.” 

The  scrivener  withdrew,  and  a  mo¬ 
ment  later  one  of  the  guards  strode 
across  the  huge  chamber  and  saluted 
the  duke.  Raymond  extended  the  king’s 
passport. 

“Take  this,  Frenchman;  from  this 
moment  you’re  the  Sieur  de  Castel- 
morc,  a  Gascon  gentleman,  hearing  des¬ 
patches  from  Paris  to  the  Grand  Duke 
of  Tuscany.  Take  my  own  black  horse 
and  the  letter  I’ll  give  you  presently. 
Ride  like  the  devil  to  Florence,  deliver 
the  letter  to  the  Grand  Duke  in  per¬ 
son,  and  then  get  out  of  Florence  be¬ 
fore  he  reads  the  letter  and  has  a  mind 
to  hang  the  messenger.”  He  tossed  the 
man  a  purse.  "Here’s  gold ;  twice  as  much 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


56 

if  you  return  safe,  your  errand  done.” 

THE  man  saluted  and  departed. 

Raymond  relaxed,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair;  he  filled  a  glass  with  wine 
and  drank  it  off,  and  met  the  calm, 
thoughtful  gaze  of  Donna  Luisa.  He 
smiled  suddenly. 

"What,  little  dove?  The  prospect's 
not  so  bad  after  all,  eh  ?  Tomorrow  we'll 
be  in  Corthia.  You'll  have  a  palace,  with 
riches,  velvets,  servants,  horses,  friends 
—whatever  your  heart  desires!” 

"My  heart  desires  virtue,”  she  said 
calmly.  Raymond  chuckled. 

"At  the  moment,  no  doubt;  you’ll 
get  over  that,  my  dear.  You’re  no 
hysterical  lass  to  clap  a  dagger  through 
her  heart  because  a  man  has  kissed  her  t 
A  tear  or  two,  a  scream  or  two,  per¬ 
haps  a  blow  or  two;  then  you’ll  settle 
down  to  enjoy  the  advantages  that  life  of¬ 
fers  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  Italy.” 

She  regarded  him  steadily,  medita¬ 
tively. 

"A  liar,”  she  said  reflectively.  "A 
man  with  a  heart  so  cold  and  selfish- 
callous  that  he's  lost  all  perception  of 
goodness.  Poor  Raymond  1”  Her  blue  eyes 
softened.  “I  do  pity  you,  so  small  and 
petty  a  thing  you  are,  when  with  your 
talents  you  might  have  grown  so  great !” 

A  slight  flush  crept  into  his  cheeks,  for 
it  was  evident  that  she  meant  her  words. 

“The  devil  1”  He  stared  at  her,  and 
laughed  shortly.  Then  he  glanced 
around,  at  shuffling  steps.  It  was  the 
scrivener,  Mario,  and  with  him  the 
French  guard. 

Raymond  looked  at  the  two  vellum 
letters;  the  writing  was  identical,  the 
signatures  were  identical.  The  true 
letter  he  crumpled  up.  The  false  let¬ 
ter,  with  its  inner  seal  and  tie  of  twist¬ 
ed  vellum,  he  folded  over  and  gave  back 
to  Mario. 


"Perfect,”  he  said  crisply.  “Apply 
the  outer  seal  and  give  it  to  the  Sieur 
de  Castelmore.  And  you.  Frenchman, 
remember  my  words!  Once  you’ve  de¬ 
livered  it,  get  out  of  Florence  quickly !” 

"No  danger,  lord;  I’ll  remember.” 
With  a  grin,  the  man  departed. 

Raymond  leaned  back  again,  sipped 
his  wine,  met  the  steady  eye  of  Donna 
Luisa.  A  silence  fell ;  presently  came 
voices  from  the  courtyard,  a  ring  and 
click  of  hooves,  and  the  shouted  fare¬ 
well  of  the  messenger  as  he  departed. 

And  Raymond,  eyeing  the  girl,  found 
a  slow,  mocking  smite  on  her  lips. 

"What  amuses  you,  little  dove?"  be 
demanded.  "The  thought  of  tomorrow 
and  Corthia?” 

"No;  the  thought  of  tonight,  and  the 
Black  Bull.  I  suppose,”  she  said  soft¬ 
ly,  with  a  lift  of  her  brows,  "you  could 
overtake  and  bring  back  that  messen¬ 
ger,  if  you  wished?” 

"Mounted  on  my  own  black  Arab, 
and  with  orders  to  speed,  not  the  devil 
himself  could  overtake  that  man  1”  said 
Raymond  confidently.  "Why  do  yon 
ask  such  a  question?” 

“You’ll  learn  soon  enough.  Are  you 
going  to  order  out  my  coach,  with  ftesh 
horses,  and  let  me  go  back  to  Genoa 
—here  and  now?” 

“I  am  not,"  he  said  with  cool  amuse¬ 
ment.  "Instead,  we’re  going  upstairs, 
together.  And  there,  you  shall  show  me 
those  jewels  of  yours ;  not  that  I  want 
them,  little  dove,  for  you  shall  deck 
yourself  in  them  to  delight  my  eye, 
and  at  Corthia  you  shall  have  such 
jewels  as  you’ve  never  seen  before  I” 

"Indeed  f  Again  she  smiled,  slight¬ 
ly,  mysteriously.  "Tell  me  something; 
is  it  true  there’s  a  price  of  five  thou¬ 
sand  crowns  on  your  head?” 

"In  Venice,  aye,”  he  said,  and 
laughed  lightly.  "They’ve  offered  that 


THE  COASTS  OF  CHANCE 


57 


for  my  death.  It’ll  never  be  collected; 
I’ve  had  more  than  that  offered  for 
me,  in  vain !  Where  did  you  hear  of  it?” 

“In  Genoa,”  she  said. 

Something  in  her  manner  wakened 
a  vague  uneasiness  in  him ;  he  eyed  her 
warily,  and  could  not  guess  at  what 
lay  in  her  mind.  Then,  catching  sight 
of  the  innkeeper,  he  beckoned;  the 
other  came  forward. 

"Light  our  chamber,  above.” 

"It  is  already  lighted,”  said  the  land¬ 
lord.  "I  placed  lights  in  it  when  they 
first  went  up.  But,  my  lord!  That 
rascally  coachman  of  theirs,  he  of  the 
shaggy  red  hair,  has  vanished.  There 
were  no  orders  to  put  him  in  a  cell ; 
he  must  have  stolen  forth  and  taken  to 
his  heels.” 

Raymond  burst  out  laughing,  and 
rose. 

"So  much  the  better!  We’re  rid  of 
him  easily.  Come,  my  dear!”  He 
bowed  to  Donna  Luisa,  and  extended 
his  arm.  She  rose,  and  her  enigmatic 
smile  touched  him  again  for  an  in¬ 
stant  before  she  accepted  his  arm. 
Raymond  flung  a  glance  and  a  word  at 
the  innkeeper.  "On  no  account,  dis¬ 
turb  us!  Tell  my  men  to  make  them¬ 
selves  comfortable.” 

They  went  to  the  stairs;  a  flicker¬ 
ing  cresset  there  lighted  the  way. 

THE  door  to  the  chamber  above 
stood  open.  Donna  Lnisa  passed 
in ;  Ray  mond  followed,  then  closed  the 
massive  door  and  bolted  it. 

It  was  a  large  room,  with  casement 
windows ;  on  the  table  by  the  windows 
stood  an  iron  candelabrum  in  which 
two  candles  were  burning.  By  this 
reposed  Donna  Luisa’s  casket  of  leath¬ 
er.  The  luggage  was  on  the  Boor  near¬ 
by.  The  remainder  of  the  room  was 
shadowy,  obscure.  A  huge  festered 


bed  in  one  corner;  huge  armoires  along 
the  walls,  to  serve  as  closets;  huge 
beams  overhead,  all  huge,  dark,  omi¬ 
nous  with  flickering  shadows. 

Donna  Luisa  went  to  the  table,  took 
out  a  little  key,  set  it  to  the  casket  and 
threw  back  the  lid.  She  glanced  side¬ 
ways  at  Duke  Raymond, 

"Do  you  care  to  see  the  jewels?” 

"Bah !  Such  jewels  as  a  shopkeep¬ 
er’s  daughter  might  own;  not  the  sort 
of  gems  you  shall  have  tomorrow,  the 
sort  of  gems  to  become  you,  madonna  1” 
With  a  scornful  laugh,  he  took  a  hand¬ 
ful  of  broad  gold  pieces  from  his  pocket 
and  tossed  them  on  the  table.  "There’s  the 
worth  of  double  your  jewels,  little  dove !” 

She  drew  a  deep  breath,  closed  the 
lid  of  the  casket,  and  turned  to  him. 
He  caught  her  suddenly,  kissing  her 
lips,  her  eyes,  her  lips  again.  She  did 
not  struggle  or  resist,  but  stood  pas¬ 
sive  until  he  held  her  away,  looking  at 
her.  Then  her  eyes  smote  him. 

"There  are  two  things,  Raymond, 
you  do  not  know,”  she  said  calmly. 
"First,  since  leaving  Genoa  and  discov¬ 
ering  the  true  nature  of  that  brute  who 
had  beguiled  me,  I  took  measures  to 
protect  myself  from  him;  these  same 
measures  will  protect  me  against  you.” 

Her  quiet,  unexcited  assurance  would 
have  been  staggering  at  any  other  mo¬ 
ment,  but  now  passion  was  flaming  in 
Raymond's  brain.  He  uttered  a  wild 
laugh. 

"Yes?  I’ll  repay  your  confidence 
with  another,  madonna!  A  little  while 
ago  you  said  I  might  have  become 
great;  well,  I  shall  become  great!  I 
have  my  plans  laid.  Soon  I  go  to  Rome 
— Rome,  you  understand?  And  Rome 
shall  become  mine.  You  shall  go  with 
me;  you  shall  become  mistress  of 
Rome,  little  dove  I” 

She  regarded  him  steadily,  her  blue 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


58 

eyes  unafraid,  untouched,  unmoved. 

“No/'  she  said.  “I  have  warned  you, 
Raymond.  Now,  before  telling  you  the 
second  thing  you  don’t  know,  1  appeal 
to  you.”  Her  voice  became  soft,  ten¬ 
der,  musical.  "Look  at  me,  Raymond ; 
I’m  not  the  sort  of  woman  to  serve 
your  lust.  I  beg  of  you,  spare  me ;  act 
like  the  prince  you  should  be,  and  spare 
me,  send  me  on  my  way !  Do  this,  and 
blessings  will  fall  upon  you.  Refuse, 
and  all  your  ambitions  shall  end  in  dis¬ 
aster  and  death  and  misery.  It  is  yours 
to  choose,  between  blessing  and  curse  1" 

Again  was  that  queer  shining  thing 
in  her  eyes,  which  stirred  such  old  for¬ 
gotten  memories  in  him ;  for  one  in¬ 
stant,  a  sense  of  shame  came  upon  him, 
so  that  his  grip  on  her  shoulders  loos¬ 
ened.  Then  the  loveliness  of  her,  and 
passionate  desire,  swept  away  all  else; 
he  crushed  her  against  him,  crushed 
her  lips  to  his  own. 

“That  for  warnings  and  blessings 
alike!”  he  exclaimed,  vigorously.  “How 
do  you  like  that. answer,  little  dove?” 

“It  brooks  only  one  reply,”  she  said 
quietly,  “What  about  the  other  mes¬ 
senger  to  Florence,  with  the  duplicate 
letter  from  Mazarin?” 

His  eyes  dilated.  Passion  died  out 
of  his  features;  they  tightened,  hard¬ 
ened,  stiffened ;  his  hands  relaxed  their 
grip.  She  went  on  speaking,  calmly. 

"Another  messenger,  Raymond,  dis¬ 
guised,  going  by  a  different  route.  You 
could  still  catch  him,  stop  him!  But 
you  don’t  know  who  he  is,  or  where  to 
find  him.  Castelmore  knew,  but  you 
hanged  him  and  lie  can’t  tell.  I  can 
tell,  I  alone!” 

In  a  flash,  Raymond  saw  all  his  plans 
and  triumph  going  to  smash.  The  wily 
Mazarin,  taking  no  chances  on  a  sin¬ 
gle  messenger;  his  own  forgery  now 
on  the  way  to  Florence,  only  to  be  dis¬ 


credited;  and  Duke  Ferdinand  would 
make  him  rue  that  forgery  bitterly. 

“Then  tell — tell  me  quickly.  Do  you 
hear,  woman?  Quickly!” 

“No,  Raymond;  why  should  I  tell? 
I’m  in  your  power,  and  you  refuse  to 
spare  me;  well,  do  your  worst!  Tor¬ 
ture  me,  if  you  like;  whip  me,  rack  me, 
burn  me— can  you  make  me  tell?  You 
cannot.” 

And,  looking  into  her  eyes,  he  knew 
he  could  not.  Fury  rose  in  him ;  knot¬ 
ted  veins  stood  out  upon  his  forehead, 
his  hands  clenched.  And,  in  the  back 
of  Ins  brain,  was  a  rising  tide  of  fear 
—dismay  and  fear,  for  his  ghastly  error. 

“I  must  know,  I  must  know!”  he 
said  in  a  stifled  voice.  “What  do  you 
want?” 

“Freedom,”  she  returned  curtly. 

“Very  well,”  he  said,  and  checked 
himself. 

ALMOST  she  had  won  her  play. 

He  was  shaken,  helpless,  beaten. 
Then,  as  he  looked  into  her  eyes,  he 
suddenly  sensed  something  there — 
something  that  again  stopped  his 
pulses,  telegraphed  his  brain,  wakened 
his  faculties.  And  he  remembered,  for 
the  first  time,  that  the  proposals  from 
Grand  Duke  Ferdinand  had  been  en¬ 
closed  in  that  letter  from  Mazarin.  His 
head  lifted,  his  shoulders  squared,  and 
with  a  slow  smile  he  put  out  his  hands 
again  and  gripped  her  arms. 

“Clever!  Little  dove,  you’re  clever!” 
he  murmured.  “But  you  forgot  one 
thing.  You  lie!  You  lie!” 

The  blue  depths  fronting  him  were 
abruptly  stricken  with  terror,  and  at 
this,  he  became  quite  certain. 

“No,  no!  I  tell  you— ” 

“Tell  me  no  more,”  he  said,  and  drew 
her  slowly  to  him.  “The  letters  from 
Tuscany  to  Paris  were  in  this  packet 


THE  COASTS  OF  CHANCE 


59 


—this  alone.  There  was  no  duplicate 
letter  from  Mazarin,  There  was  no 
other  messenger.  Ah,  you  played  it 
well !  I  love  you  all  the  more  for  the 
game,  madonna!  Kiss  me,  kiss  me, 
yield  to  destiny  and  happiness — ” 

Fear,  horror,  consternation  were  in 
her  face;  she  tried  to  struggle,  and 
could  not.  He  pressed  her  to  him, 
sought  her  lips  eagerly,  joyously — and, 
in  this  instant,  felt  something  touch  the 
back  of  his  neck.  Something  sharp, 
that  pricked  his  flesh ;  something  cold, 
that  chilled  his  brain. 

He  turned  his  head  a  little  and  then 
stiffened,  motionless,  as  he  glimpsed 
the  figure  that  stood  behind  him  with 
leveled  sword  blade.  A  gangling  fig¬ 
ure,  a  face  scarred  and  evil,  framed  in 
shaggy,  dangling  red  hair.  It  was  the 
driver  of  the  coach,  the  servant  of  the 
Frenchman, 

From  Raymond's  nerveless  hands, 
Donna  Luisa  drew  away  unhindered. 

“Excellency,  keep  your  arms  as  they 
are;  up!  Don't  move,  or  the  point 
drives  home." 

"You  fool!  I’m  Raymond  of  Cor¬ 
tina!” 

“I  know  it,”  and  the  harsh  voice 
cackled  a  laugh.  "And  I’ll  get  five  thou¬ 
sand  crowns  at  Venice  for  skewering 
you !  So  stand  steady.” 

Raymond  obeyed.  He  turned  his 
head  again  and  looked  at  Donna  Luisa. 
With  a  bit  of  lace,  she  was  wiping  her 
lips,  wiping  away  the  touch  of  his 
caresses.  She  was  white  and  still  and 
proud  as  she  met  his  gaze. 

“I  warned  you,”  she  said  calmly,  "I 
told  you  I'd  made  my  plans.  I  bribed 
this  man  to  serve  me ;  he  was  willing  to 
kill  his  master,  he’s  willing  to  kill  you.” 

"Fool!”  said  Raymond.  “I’ll  give 
you  fifty  thousand  crowns  to  leave  this 
room !” 


"Aye!  And  then  you’d  string  me 
up.  I’ve  heard  of  you.  excellency;  I 
play  safe,  and  you  die  here.  Or  else 
you  stay  bound  and  gagged  while  we 
go.  As  the  lady  orders.” 

Raymond  met  the  girl’s  cold  blue 
eyes,  and  laughed  a  little. 

"Faith,  you  seem  in  the  saddle!  You 
seem  also  to  have  meant  your  virtuous 
words.  Your  rascal  holds  his  point 
steady ;  he  knows  his  business.  You’ve 
won  the  game.  Will  you  accept  my 
word  of  honor — ” 

“I  will  not.  Your  honor  is  worth¬ 
less,”  she  broke  in  with  cold  contempt. 
"You  don't  know  the  meaning  of  the 
word !  You’ll  be  tied  up,  bound,  gagged, 
left  here;  lucky  not  to  be  murdered. 
But  I  want  no  murder  on  my  soul.” 

Raymond's  eyes  darkened.  An  un¬ 
pleasant  prospect ;  he  would  be  found 
in  the  morning,  the  story  would  spread, 
he  would  become  the  laughing  stock  of 
all  Italy.  Raymond  of  Corthia  tricked 
by  a  wench !  A  flame  leaped  in  him ! 

"Stop!”  he  exclaimed.  "Careful, 
Donna  Luisa!  No  one  has  bested  Ray¬ 
mond  of  Corthia  vet  ;  don’t  press  me 
too  far!  I’ll  swear  to  set  the  two  of 
yott  at  liberty,  in  your  own  coach,  at 
once.  Accept  my  word !” 

"Your  oaths  are  as  worthless  as  your 
honor,”  she  said  calmly.  Her  hand 
went  under  her  gown,  and  drew  out 
a  poniard.  "You’re  the  one  to  have  a 
care !  Keep  your  arms  up,  while  I  take 
your  dagger — ” 

RAYMOND  faced  destiny ;  and  faced 
it  with  a  gamble,  as  always.  A 
gamble  on  a  fairly  sure  thing. 

He  kept  his  ar.ns  up,  but  shot  his 
head  and  body  forward,  striking  against 
the  girl.  She  was,  as  he  had  figured, 
slow  to  use  her  dagger.  The  man  be¬ 
hind  was  not  slow  by  any  means.  The 


60 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


point  of  his  sword,  removed  from  Ray¬ 
mond's  bare  neck,  drove  in  hard  and 
fast  between  Raymond’s  shoulders — 
a  thrust  that  should  have  spitted  any 
man  through. 

The  blade,  however,  merely  bent 
double.  More  than  once,  that  shirt  of 
steel  mesh,  invisible  beneath  his  dou¬ 
blet,  had  saved  Raymond  of  Corthia 
from  destiny;  and  it  saved  him  now. 
He  was  heaved  forward  by  the  thrust, 
he  lost  balance,  he  went  sprawling 
across  the  floor — but,  catlike,  he  rolled 
over  and  came  to  his  feet. 

The  bravo,  with  an  oath  of  fury  was 
hot  upon  him.  Raymond  laughed,  as 
his  long  poniard  slipped  out,  met  the 
thrusting  blade,  and  warded  it.  He 
might  well  laugh.  A  poniard,  in  the 
hand  of  Raymond  of  Corthia,  was  bet¬ 
ter  than  a  swford  in  another’s  hand,  as 
he  proceeded  to  prove. 

Laughing  gaily,  joyousty,  viciously, 
he  warded  thrust  and  lunge,  took  a 
deadly  riposte  slap  over  the  heart,  and 
chuckled  as  the  sword  blade  bent  again 
on  the  hidden  steel  mesh.  An  oath 
of  fury  escaped  the  bravo.  Raymond 
danced  away,  keeping  one  eye  on  the 
disconcerted,  bewildered  Donna  Luisa 
and  her  stiletto. 

“Ha,  red  haired  rogue!”  he  said 
mockingly,  meeting  a  new  lunge  with 
swift  parry.  “Ha!  You  scar  faced  scurvy 
scoundrel.  I’d  fight  you  with  a  bodkin  and 
slit  your  throat  before  you  could — ” 

Death  slid  at  him  suddenly.  He 
leaped  away,  but  it  was  a  near  thing; 
the  sword’s  point  touched  his  throat 
and  drcwr  a  pinch  of  blood.  Donna 
Luisa  moved  unexpectedly  ;  came  run¬ 
ning  at  him  from  behind,  her  eyes  wild, 
desperation  in  her  face.  Raymond 
avoided  her  with  nimble  step,  backed 
around  to  meet  the  thirsty  sword,  and 
engaged  it  as  though  he  held  a  dueling 


rapier.  His  eyes  alight,  he  faced  the 
panting,  sweating  bravo  with  a  laugh. 

“I’ve  got  the  feel  of  you  now,  red- 
hair!”  he  jeered.  “Death’s  close  behind 
you,  touching  your  shoulder,  reaching 
out  for  you!  I’ll  sign  your  passport  to 
hell  with  a  scarlet  pen,  my  fine  ruffler! 
Draw  sw-ord  on  me,  will  you?  By  the 
nails  of  God,  it’s  the  last  time  you'll 
draw  sword  on  any  man !” 

Despite  boasts,  he  could  not  reach 
past  the  long  sword  guard  with  his 
shorter  weapon;  and  knew  it  well. 

All  this  had  happened  in  a  moment's 
time — a  swift,  slow,  frightful  moment. 
The  hovering  Donna  Luisa  was  un¬ 
aware  that  no  steel  could  pierce  Ray¬ 
mond  from  throat  to  hip;  it  seemed 
black  magic  that  he  was  unhurt. 

Suddenly  he  slipped.  He  fell  to  one 
knee.  With  a  gasp,  the  bravo  drove  in 
a  thrust  to  finish  him — but  Raymond 
came  up  under  that  lunging  blade, 
which  struck  his  shoulders  and  scraped 
away.  He  came  up,  and  the  poniard 
with  him;  up  and  up,  swiftly,  death  in 
his  eyes  and  his  hand.  The  poniard 
struck  into  the  red  haired  man,  thud¬ 
ded  into  him  to  the  very  hilt,  and  was 
torn  from  Raymond’s  grasp.  The  bravo 
pitched  over  in  death. 

And  as  Raymond  swayed,  empty 
handed,  Donna  Luisa  fell  upon  him  and 
drove  in  the  stiletto  for  his  heart. 

The  thin  steel  shivered  in  her  hand. 
A  wild,  gasping  cry  escaped  her,  for 
Raymond  was  clutching  at  her.  Her 
hand  slapped  him  across  the  face,  hard; 
with  an  access  of  fury,  he  flung  her 
from  him.  She  went  staggering  into 
the  shadows,  struck  her  head  against 
the  high  bed  post,  and  collapsed  across 
the  bed,  unconscious. 

Upon  the  room  settled  silence,  bro¬ 
ken  only  by  the  harsh,  panting  breaths 
of  Duke  Raymond.  Silence,  and  the 


THE  COASTS  OF  CHANCE 


raw  odor  of  fresh  blood,  rising  from 
the  floor.  Abruptly,  Raymond  moved. 

He  stooped  over  the  dead  man,  freed 
his  poniard,  wiped  it  on  the  shaggy 
red  hair,  and  clapped  it  into  the  sheath. 
Then,  breathing  hard,  he  took  the  iron 
candlestick  and  went  to  the  bed ;  he 
held  up  the  light,  looking  down  at 
Donna  Luisa  as  she  lay. 

She  seemed  as  though  sleeping, 
rather  than  senseless.  Her  hands  were 
folded  across  Her  breast ;  her  sweet  fea¬ 
tures  were  very  peaceful,  almost  smil¬ 
ing.  Raymond  stared  at  her,  frankly 
incredulous,  his  brows  drawing  down. 

She  had  failed.  She  was  his.  And 
yet.  the  hand  he  lifted  and  drew  across 
his  eyes  was  trembling.  She  seemed 
so  like  a  fragile  flower  as  she  lay  here! 
The  white  lines  of  her  face  were  vir¬ 
ginal,  delicate;  her  long,  slim  hands 
were  like  wax.  She  could  be  crushed 
and  broken,  but  not  bent — 

Abruptly,  the  man  stirred.  A  deep 
breath  escaped  him ;  he  stooped, 
touched  his  lips  to  her  white  hands, 
then  strode  across  the  room. 

"Landlord!”  His  voice  rang  like  a 
clarion.  "Come  here.  Bring  a  couple 
of  men.” 

AFTER  a  moment  sounded  the 
tramp  of  feet  on  the  stairs.  In 
hurried  two  of  the  guards  and  the  burly 
innkeeper,  to  stare  all  amazed  at  the 
dead  man.  Raymond  flung  them  a  thin 
smile,  a  sardonic  word. 

"You  keep  good  watch,  down  below. 
This  fellow  had  hidden  here  to  kill  me. 
Carry  him  out !  Landlord,  bring  out 
the  lady’s  coach,  harness  the  horses; 
lift  her  down  yourself,  as  she  is,  and 
put  her  in  the  coach.  One  of  my  men, 
and  two  guards,  will  ride  with  it  to 
Genoa,  leaving  her  wherever  she  may 
desire.  Understood?” 


61 

"Yes,  yes,  excellency!”  exclaimed  the 
staring  landlord. 

The  dead  man  was  carried  out.  The 
innkeeper  gently  lifted  the  form  of 
Donna  Luisa  and  bore  her  away.  Ray¬ 
mond  went  to  a  window  and  flung  it 
open,  and  stood  glowering  out  at  the 
darkness,  his  dark  features  mutinous 
and  writhing.  He  caught  a  rumble  of 
wheels,  a  clatter  of  horses,  and  mouthed 
a  sullen  oath. 

"Im  a  fool!  Why  did  I  do  it?”  he 
muttered,  fingers  gripping  at  his  dag¬ 
ger  hilt.  "Something  in  her  face, 
stronger  than  anything  in  me — ” 

****  ****** 

My  friend  Haberlein  settled  back  in 
his  chair,  his  eyes  aglow,  as  he  finished 
his  tale.  I  was  jerked  abruptly  back 
from  medieval  Italy  to  the  present,  and 
sat  staring  at  him,  uncomfortably 
aware  of  the  hypnotic  spell  he  had 
cast  upon  me. 

“There  you  have  the  whole  thing  I” 
he  exclaimed  with  enthusiasm.  "If 
it  hadn't  been  for  that  girl  and  what 
happened  at  the  Black  Bull  that  eve¬ 
ning,  the  whole  course  of  trade  and 
empire  might  have  been  changed — ” 

“Devil  take  trade  and  empire!”  I 
said  with  irritation.  "What  became  of 
the  girl?  What  became  of  Raymond 
of  Corthia?” 

Haberlein  shrugged,  and  rose. 

“I  don't  know,”  he  said.  "I  was 
just  telling  you  the  story  of  that  one 
evening — the  only  time  Raymond  of 
Corthia  was  ever  known  to  show 
mercy.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  girl, 
he  wouldn't  have  blocked  the  plans  of 
Mazarin — " 

I  waved  him  away.  I  would  have 
given  anything  on  earth  to  have  known 
what  became  of  that  magnificent  girl 
— and  Haberlein  neither  knew  nor 
cared. 


■ 


by  BERTRAND  L.  SHURTLEFF 


Uiustmted  by  HAROLD  DELAY 


There  was  light  girlish 

laughter  from  behind  the  high 
hedge  of  old  box.  The  flounce  of 
feminine  skirts  showed  under  the  thick 
leaved  branches, 

“Miss  Priscilla  seems  to  be  enjoying 
herself/'  said  young  Captain  Kenyon 
with  a  quick  smile  at  the  old  ship  owner, 
Gideon  Wing  chuckled  and  his 
shrewd  little  eyes  danced  as  he  sucked 
in  hb  sunken  old  cheeks  and  nodded. 

“Seems  so,  don't  she  Y*  he  cackled. 
"Bui  why  nott  with  a  handsome  young 
skipper  to  entertain  her,  eh?” 

Kenyon  beamed  and  lifted  a  hand  to 
his  huge  new  necktie.  A  glow  of  satis¬ 
faction  suffused  him.  His  success  in 
working  Ids  way  up  to  command  of  a 
Wing  vessel  seemed  about  to  be 
crowned  with  a  chance  to  marry  into 
the  wealthy  family,  for  the  old  man’s 
evident  delight  could  mean  nothing  less 
than  his  approval  of  such  an  arrange* 
menu 


Then  a  deep  masculine  voice  rumbled 
beyond  the  box,  and  Amos  Kenyon  felt 
his  elation  flow  away.  Flushing  angrily, 
he  stared  down  at  the  matched  flags  of 
the  walk,  where  Gideon  Wing's  fcrruled 
cane  was  thrusting  at  a  crack  as  if  to 
frustrate  the  tiny  ants  toiling  there. 

Captain  Kenyon  knew  that  voice. 
From  childhood  he  had  competed  with 
its  owner.  Burden  Chase,  at  every  turn. 
Now  they  were  both  masters  of  Wing 
vessels,  and  evidently  rivals  for  Miss 
Priscilla’s  hand.  Perhaps— and  his 
heart  chilled  at  the  thought — the  reason 
the  Petrel  loitered  at  her  wharf,  although 
ready  for  sea  before  the  Albatross,  was 
that  the  daughter  favored  Chase, 
“Burden,"  called  the  girlish  voice, 
"Pm  sure  you’ll  win.  I  have  every  con¬ 
fidence  in  you.  But  I  promised  father — " 
Amos  Kenyon  thrust  his  dark  young 
face  forward  through  the  gap  in  the 
hedge.  Keen  eyes  focused  on  the  girl's 
face,  he  bowed  low. 


63 


by  BERTRAND  L.  SHURTLEFF 


Illustrated  by  HAROLD  DELAY 


There  was  light  girlish 

laughter  from  behind  the  high 
hedge  of  old  box.  The  flounce  of 
feminine  skirts  showed  under  the  thick 
leaved  branches. 

“Miss  Priscilla  seems  to  be  enjoying 
herself,”  said  young  Captain  Kenyon 
with  a  quick  smile  at  the  old  ship  owner. 

Gideon  Wing  chuckled  and  his 
shrewd  little  eyes  danced  as  he  sucked 
in  his  sunken  old  cheeks  and  nodded. 

“Seems  so,  don’t  she?”  he  cackled. 
“But  why  not,  with  a  handsome  young 
skipper  to  entertain  her,  eh  ?” 

Kenyon  beamed  and  lifted  a  hand  to 
his  huge  new  necktie.  A  glow  of  satis¬ 
faction  suffused  him.  His  success  in 
working  his  way  up  to  command  of  a 
Wing  vessel  seemed  about  to  be 
crowned  with  a  chance  to  marry  into 
the  wealthy  family,  for  the  old  man’s 
evident  delight  could  mean  nothing  less 
than  his  approval  of  such  an  arrange¬ 
ment. 

63 


Then  a  deep  masculine  voice  rumbled 
beyond  the  box,  and  Amos  Kenyon  felt 
his  elation  flow  away.  Flushing  angrily, 
he  stared  down  at  the  matched  flags  of 
the  walk,  where  Gideon  Wing’s  ferruled 
cane  was  thrusting  at  a  crack  as  if  to 
frustrate  the  tiny  ants  toiling  there. 

Captain  Kenyon  knew  that  voice. 
From  childhood  he  had  competed  with 
its  owner.  Burden  Chase,  at  every  turn. 
Now  they  w-ere  both  masters  of  Wing 
vessels,  and  evidently  rivals  for  Miss 
Priscilla’s  hand.  Perhaps — and  his 
heart  chilled  at  the  thought — the  reason 
the  Petrel  loitered  at  her  wharf,  although 
ready  for  sea  lie  fore  the  Albatross,  was 
that  the  daughter  favored  Chase. 

“Burden,”  called  the  girlish  voice, 
“I’m  sure  you’ll  win.  I  have  every  con¬ 
fidence  in  you.  But  I  promised  father — ” 
Amos  Kenyon  thrust  his  dark  young 
face  forward  through  the  gap  in  the 
hedge.  Keen  eyes  focused  on  the  girl’s 
face,  he  bowed  low. 


64 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


“Did  I  hear  you  mention  something 
about  winning?”  he  asked  jeeringly. 
“What's  the  competition?  Burden  and 
I  have  always  been  contending  for 
something  or  other  ail  our  lives.  If 
there's  a  contest  on  now,  I  want  to  enter 
— especially,”  bowing  low  again,  “if 
you  are  to  be  the  prize,  Miss  Priscilla.” 

“She’s  not  to  be  "  said  Captain  Chase 
quickly. 

Kenyon  laughed  shortly.  "She’s  sure 
you’ll  win  but  isn’t  game  to  offer  herself 
as  the  reward.  Evidently  she  cither  dis¬ 
likes  you,  Burdie,  or  hasn’t  as  much 
confidence  in  you  as  she  claims  in  pri¬ 
vate.” 

The  words  did  not  cut  half  as  much 
as  the  tone.  There  was  studied  taunt  in 
his  smile,  in  the  curl  of  his  lip,  in  the 
belligerent  way  his  throat  beard  thrust 
out  from  under  his  clean  shaved  face.  A 
girl  with  less  spirit  than  Priscilla  Wing 
might  have  been  forced  to  answer. 

“The  prize  is  one  my  father  offers,” 
she  said  quickly. 

"And  you're  not  going  to  add  your 
own  pretty  self?” 

Her  face  flushed.  Her  dark  brown 
eyes  grew  black.  Her  little  head  tossed 
its  profusion  of  dark  curls,  and  her 
bosom  heaved  under  the  tight  lacing. 

"I  was  about  to  explain  to  Captain 
Chase,”  she  said  quickly,  “when  your 
arrival  interrupted,  that  I  have  prom¬ 
ised  my  father  not  to  bind  myself  to 
anybody  until  his  race  is  over.  If  he  is 
willing,”  turning  her  eyes  fondly  on  the 
nodding  old  man.  “I  will  gladly  offer  to 
go  with  the  award.” 

"No,  no!”  protested  Chase  quickly. 

“Afraid  you’ll  lose?”  asked  Kenyon 
coldly. 

“No,  but  marriage  is  too  sacred  a 
thing  to  be  wagered  on  a  race.  No 
matter  what  the  contest,  luck  plays  an 
important  part.  I  can’t  let  her — ” 


“You  can’t  stop  her,  if  her  father 
agrees,”  grinned  Kenyon,  elated  as  he 
saw  the  older  head  beginning  to  nod. 

“Priscy,”  beamed  the  old  ship  owner, 
rubbing  the  gold  head  of  his  whale  bone 
cane  delightedly  with  a  cupped  palm, 
“you’ve  showed  your  metal.  A  chip  off 
the  old  block,  you  be,  my  girl.  Always 
pick  the  winner  and  you  can’t  go  wrong. 
Just  what  I’d  been  hopin’  you’d  prom¬ 
ise,  but  I  wasn’t  goin’  to  say  it.  Nothin’ 
like  a  good  lookin'  young  woman  pullin’ 
on  the  tow-rope  to  bring  a  young  skip¬ 
per  home  in  record  time.” 

His  shrill  cackle  of  delight  sent  a  chill 
down  the  spine  of  Burden  Chase.  Deep¬ 
ly  in  love  with  Priscilla  Wing  since  she 
had  played  in  pigtails  with  him,  he  felt 
that  the  girl  had  been  fairly  forced  into 
the  situation.  *Her  father  had  wor¬ 
shipped  money  so  long  that  everything 
else  was  secondary  to  him.  Kenyon, 
aware  that  the  girl  favored  his  rival,  was 
too  eager  to  marry  her  wealth  to  care 
how  much  love  she  brought  to  the  wed¬ 
ding. 

As  Gideon  Wing  led  Kenyon  toward 
the  broad  doorway,  the  girl  slipped 
nearer  to  Chase  and  thrust  a  cold  little 
hand  into  his  great  paw.  Pleadingly  her 
soft  eyes  turned  up  to  his.  Her  mouth 
trembled. 

“Burden,  I — I  had  to.  He  dared  me 
into  it.  But  I  knew,”  forcing  a  brave 
smile,  “that  you’d  beat  him,” 

Captain  Chase  smiled  down  at  her 
and  his  big  fingers  closed  firmly  over 
the  smaller  ones.  Although  he  knew  far 
better  than  she  the  uncertainties  of  the 
race  ahead,  he  buried  his  own  doubts 
and  fears  in  an  effort  to  give  her  confi¬ 
dence.  Hand  in  hand  they  followed  to 
the  dining  room  where  dinner  was  wait¬ 
ing. 

“What  is  this  race  with  such  a  pre¬ 
cious  prize?”  boomed  Kenyon,  as  soon 


I 


WHALES’  WAY 


as  they  were  seated.  “I  seem  to  be  the 
only  one  in  the  dark.” 

GIDEON  WING  chuckled  again; 

those  twinkling  old  eyes  of  his 
darted  from  one  stiffly  erect  captain  to 
the  other  and  then,  between  them  and 
the  candles,  to  the  pretty  face  of  his 
daughter  at  the  far  end  of  the  mahog¬ 
any  table. 

“You’re  wrong  there,  Cap’n  Kenyon” 
he  cackled.  “Nobody  knows  but  me. 
IVe  hinted  there  was  to  be  a  whalin’ 
race  atween  you  two,  but  I  ain’t  told 
nobody  the  particulars.  That’s  why  I 
had  you  both  out  to  dinner  together.” 

Silver  was  fingered  nervously.  The 
girl  met  Burden  Chase’s  eyes  with  a 
reassuring  glance  and  then  bent  for¬ 
ward.  “Father,  please  don’t  keep  us  in 
suspense  any  longer.  What  is  the  race 
to  be?” 

The  old  man  smacked  his  lips  over 
the  fine  Canary  wine  his  whaling  ships 
had  brought  to  his  cellar  years  before 
and  laughed  at  them  with  his  delighted 
eyes. 

“None  of  your  little  jim-craek  races, 
this  one,”  he  assured  them,  rubbing  his 
dry  old  hands  together.  “No  chase  of  a 
few  miles.  When  I  plan  a  race,  I  plan 
a  real  one.” 

"To  the  Pacific  grounds?”  asked 
Chase  expectantly. 

“To  that  Tali  Mahi  Island  where 
we’re  to  recruit  fresh  hands?”  urged 
Kenyon. 

Gideon  gurgled  with  fresh  delight  at 
their  eagerness  to  know.  It  tickled  the 
old  man's  fancy  to  delay  as  long  as 
possible.  “Child’s  play,”  he  scoffed. 
“Twiddle-di-dee  compared  to  what  I’ve 
in  mind.” 

The  girl  at  the  far  end  of  the  table 
was  leaning  forward  now.  Her  red  lips 
were  parted  eagerly  over  perfectly 


65 

matched  teeth,  and  her  eyes  were  bril¬ 
liant  in  the  soft  glow  of  the  candles. 

“I’ve  purposely  delayed  the  sailin’  of 
the  Petrel  until  the  Albatross  was  ready. 
“Not,”  darting  a  mischievous  glance  at 
Kenyon,  “that  it  has  been  any  hardship 
to  either  Cap’n  Chase  or  Priscy,  if  I’m 
any  judge.” 

He  broke  off  to  cackle  at  that  barb 
and  sipped  more  Canary.  The  rival 
skippers  kept  their  eyes  on  his  face,  stu¬ 
diously  avoiding  each  other  by  so  much 
as  a  glance. 

“I  fancied  that  was  because  of  the 
movement  of  the  whales,”  said  Chase. 
“If  I'd  sailed  earlier  I’d  have  had  to 
push  up  the  Pacific  to  find  ’em.  This 
way  I  meet  them  far  down  near  the  end 
of  their  swing.” 

Kenyon  snorted.  “Still  following 
your  father’s  crazy  notions  about  mi¬ 
gratin’  whales?” 

“Not  such  a  crazy  notion,  Amos,”  in¬ 
terrupted  their  host.  “Lemuel  Chase’s 
theory  was  founded  on  solid  fact,  as 
I’ll  show  you  later.  But  it  warn’t  al¬ 
together  for  that  I  delayed  sailin’  for 
you,  Burden.  I  wanted  to  start  you  off 
on  this  race.  It  starts,  gentlemen,  when 
you  leave  this  house  tonight.  It  will 
end,”  he  paused  dramatically,  “when 
one  of  you  steps  ashore  on  a  Bedford 
wharf  from  a  full  ship,  full  to  the  top 
chime  of  the  last  cask  with  sperm  oil.” 

The  immensity  of  that  order  silenced 
the  three.  Miss  Priscilla’s  hands 
gripped  the  table  but  she  was  first  to 
find  voice. 

“And  the  prize,  father?”  she  barely 
whispered  in  the  awed  silence,  blushing 
with  the  memory  that  she  had  promised 
herself  as  a  part  of  the  reward. 

“There’s  prize  enough  for  me  already 
offered,  without  his  adding  a  thing  to 
it,”  boomed  Kenyon  heartily,  turning  to 
smile  at  her. 


66 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


“But  I've  another  prize,  and  a  good 
one." 

Wing  sucked  his  old  stumps  of  teeth 
noisily,  glad  to  renew  the  suspense 
again. 

“You’ve  doubtless  heard  of  my  plans 
to  build  a  bigger  vessel  for  the  flagship 
of  my  fleet?  I  planned  her  for  Cap’n 
John  Avery,  but  he  died  before  I  got 
the  keel  laid.  John,  as  you  know,  was 
the  line's  most  successful  whalin’  mas¬ 
ter/’ 

Eager  breathing  could  be  heard  in  the 
sudden  quiet  as  he  paused. 

“The  first  of  you  two  home  with  full 
casks  gets  that  ship  and  the  command 
of  the  fleet.” 

Too  overcome  with  the  prospect  for 
flippancy,  the  two  youthful  skippers  sat 
staring  at  him  until  the  girl’s  voice 
broke  upon  them. 

“May  the  better  man  win,”  she 
toasted,  lifting  her  Canary  high  and 
looking  deep  into  Chase's  eyes  before 
bestowing  a  glance  tinged  with  disdain 
on  the  scowling  Kenyon. 

“He  will,"  roared  Kenyon,  lifting  his 
glass  high,  “and  he’ll  hold  you  to  that 
promise.  Here’s  to  a  quick  run  and  a 
good  race.” 

“Now,”  grinned  their  host,  as  the 
glasses  were  returned  to  the  table, 
“Priscy  will  excuse  us  and  we’ll  go  to 
my  library.  I’ve  somethin'  to  show  you 
there.” 

Both  captains  were  instantly  on  their 
feet,  bowing  awkwardly  as  the  girl  curt¬ 
sied  to  them  in  turn  and  swished  away, 
casting  a  dazzling  smite  back  over  her 
shoulder  at  Chase  as  she  swept  up  the 
winding  stairway  that  led  from  the 
broad  hall  outside  the  dining  room  door. 

“This  is  the  how  of  it,”  explained 
Wing,  all  business  as  he  seized  a  pointer 
that  fairly  trembled  with  his  excite¬ 
ment,  He  turned  to  face  a  huge  map  of 


the  Pacific  that  was  spread  across  one 
wall  of  the  room.  “Cap’n  Lemuel  was 
right  about  sperm  whales  migratin'. 
I've  proof  they  did!” 

Then,  as  Kenyon  sniffed  audibly,  be¬ 
ing  a  staunch  believer  that  whales  were 
merely  notional  in  their  travels,  the  old 
man  fixed  him  with  a  glittering  eye. 
“Study  them  pins.  Each  marks  where  a 
sperm  whale  was  killed  by  a  Wing 
ship.  The  flags  on  ’em  carry  the  dates, 
as  well  as  the  ships  that  killed  ’em,” 

The  two  stared  at  the  evidence.  Mak- 
ing  a  great  sweep  around  almost  the 
entire  ocean,  those  pins  formed  a 
mighty  capital  C  of  irregular  outline. 
At  a  group  of  islands  south  of  the  equa¬ 
tor  the  pins  ceased,  leaving  an  expanse 
unmarked  until  they  again  renewed, 
thick  near  New  Zealand  and  sweeping 
southeastward  into  the  Antarctic. 

Burden  Chase  nodded,  while  Amos 
Kenyon  stared. 

“One  thing’s  left  to  find  out,”  ex¬ 
plained  the  old  man  sadly.  “That’s 
where  the  whales  go  from  them  islands 
south.” 

“Didn’t  John  Avery  know?”  asked 
Chase  at  last.  “My  father  always 
thought  he  did.” 

Wing  nodded,  his  thin  nose  stabbing 
the  air.  "Exactly,”  he  agreed.  “That’s 
why  Cap’n  Avery  beat  every  other  skip¬ 
per  in  the  Pacific  and  filled  months  afore 
’em.  He  killed  sperm  whales  all  the 
year  ’round,  instead  o’  losin’  track  of 
’em  for  two  or  three  months  below  them 
islands.” 

“But  you’ve  got  his  tog  books.  Find 
out  from  them,”  suggested  Kenyon 
inanely. 

Wing  scorched  him  with  a  glance 
of  contempt.  “I’ve  brains  enough  to 
do  that — if  it  could  be  done,”  he 
snapped.  “But  he  never  entered  his 
position  from  the  time  he  left  them 


WHALES'  WAY 


islands  until  he  met  the  fleet  again  off 
New  Zealand.  It  was  a  secret  he  kept, 
even  in  death.” 

“But  his  mates  would  know,”  pro¬ 
tested  Kenyon. 

Wing  laughed  drily,  his  old  eyes 
hard.  “Would  they?  Not  if  Cap'n 
Avery  didn't  want  ’em  to,  they 
wouldn’t.  Know  what  he  did  with 
’em?  Kept  his  mates  locked  in  their 
cabins  for  a  solid  week,  kept  all  charts 
and  navigatin’  instruments  locked 
away  from  'em  until  his  ship  j’ined  the 
others.  Only  let  ’em  out  o’  cabin  to 
take  the  boats  after  whales  and  to 
boss  the  cuttin'  and  b’ilinV’ 

“But  his  helmsmen — ” 

"Was,  every  last  one  of  'em.  Kanaka 
Islanders  durin’  them  months.  That's 
how  he  kept  his  secret  and  was  killin’ 
whales  a-plenty  while  every  other  ship 
was  idle.” 

HE  RATTLED  the  pins  in  his  hand, 
shook  his  head  at  the  map. 

“If  I  could  only  stick  in  these  pins, 
gentlemen,  I'd  be  a  happy  man.  It 
would  make  a  deal  of  difference  if  my 
ships  could  work  twelve  months  every 
year  instead  of  nine  or  ten.” 

He  tossed  them  on  the  desk  and 
picked  up  a  well  thumbed  book  with  a 
cover  of  imitation  blue  marble.  Open¬ 
ing  at  a  marker,  he  fairly  stabbed  one 
thin  finger  at  an  entry.  Both  young 
captains  bent  forward  to  read. 

“This  Day  a  Native  Whale  Man 
did  Promise  to  Show  Me  the  Way  of 
the  Sparm  Whales  Southward  from 
This  Island  in  Return  for  Services 
Done  Him  in  Heeling  Him  of  a  Sick¬ 
ness  which  Yielded  to  my  Medicines. 
This  Way  is  a  Sekret  Knowed  only 
to  his  People  and  not  Ginerally  told  to 
White  Men  * 


67 

“And  you  believe  that  ?”  sniffed  Ken¬ 
yon. 

"Records  prove  it,”  insisted  Wing 
curtly.  "Every  year  after  that,  when 


John  Avery  was  in  the  Pacific,  he  took 
sperm  whales  while  ev’rybody  else 
idled.  I’d  give  ten  thousand  dollars, 
gentlemen,  in  cold  cash  to  the  skipper 
who  could  bring  me  that  information.” 

“It’s  like  lookin’  for  one  big  pearl,” 
grinned  Kenyon.  “A  full  ship  and  a 
quick  run  home’ll  suit  me.” 

Burden  Chase  said  nothing  but  he 
went  to  the  chart  and  studied  the 
neighborhood  carefully.  Gideon  Wing 
watched  him,  smiling  to  himself. 

“Better  take  a  look  at  that  course 
them  whales  follow,  Amos,”  said  the 
old  owner  quietly.  "Keepin’  that  sweep 
in  your  mind’ll  help  you  fill  faster.” 

Kenyon  bent  and  passed  a  thick 


68 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


finger  end  around  that  curve,  mutter¬ 
ing  the  names  of  the  nearest  points, 
memorizing.  Although  he  had  scoffed 
previously  at  this  theory  he  could  not 
laugh  at  the  telling  evidence  of  those 
little  pins. 

“That,”  said  the  old  owner,  snap¬ 
ping  his  massive  watch  shut,  “com¬ 
pletes  my  instructions.  The  tide  turns 
within  an  hour.  Get  your  horses 
ready  and  I’ll  start  the  race  in  proper 
manner.  Line  ’em  up  in  the  drive, 
headed  for  Bedford.  I’ll  fire  my  pistol 
for  the  start.  Remember,  the  finish 
is  to  be  when  one  of  you  shakes  hand 
with  me  on  the  wharf  with  a  full  ship 
safely  home.  Now  away  with  you.” 

Gravel  crunched  in  the  wide  drive 
as  the  two  hired  livery  rigs  swung 
abreast  of  the  steps  where  the  old  man 
stood  with  raised  pistol.  Before  him 
the  Dartmouth  meadows  swept  down 
to  cornfields  that  led  to  sand  dunes 
and  salt  water,  gleaming  under  the 
stars.  Then  a  sash  lifted  over  his  head 
and  Priscilla  was  framed  in  the  win¬ 
dow,  her  face  beautiful  under  the  soft 
glow  of  the  candle  she  sheltered  with 
one  cupped  hand  from  any  vagrant 
breeze. 

“A  swift  race  and  a  fair  one,"  she 
called.  "May  the  better  man  win." 

"Thanks,"  called  the  rivals  in  unison. 

The  old  man's  hand  jerked  with  the 
discharge,  and  the  startled  horses 
leaped  forward. 

There  was  not  enough  room  for  both 
those  hired  chaises  to  go  abreast  be¬ 
tween  those  massive  stone  posts  at  the 
end  of  the  driveway.  It  was  a  grim 
battle  down  the  gravel  to  see  which 
should  be  first  through.  Down  the 
gravel  the  horses  tore,  neck  and  neck. 

On  and  on  tore  the  straining  beasts, 
eager  to  be  home.  The  two  captains 
urged  them  faster  and  faster  with 


slapping  reins  and  cutting  whips. 
Neither  one  seemed  in  the  least  in¬ 
clined  to  slacken  pace. 

“Give  way  or  you  crash,"  roared 
Kenyon,  yanking  his  horse’s  head  to 
lunge  him  against  the  galloping  grey. 

“Smash  and  be  damned  to  you,”  bel¬ 
lowed  Chase  in  reply,  dragging  on  his 
own  rein  to  get  the  same  result. 

The  horses  went  through  side  by 
side.  The  light  wagons,  driven  hub 
to  hub  as  the  horses  collided,  were 
suddenly  smacked  resoundingly  into 
those  solid  stone  posts.  Wood  splin¬ 
tered  with  a  crash,  two  figures,  the 
reins  wrapped  around  their  wrists, 
went  flying  over  the  dashboards,  and  a 
trail  of  wreckage  and  gliding  humanity 
went  streaking  off  down  the  dirt  road, 
raising  a  cloud  of  dust  in  spite  of  the 
heavy  dew  that  had  come  in,  salt  from 
the  sea. 

The  girl  screamed,  but  her  father 
only  danced  about  with  glee,  chuckling 
at  this  evidence  of  spirit.  Then  he 
cocked  his  head  and  listened  to  the 
shouts,  curses,  and  commands  that 
came  fainter  and  fainter  from  the  road, 
as  the  terrified  horses  dragged  their 
unlucky  drivers  farther  and  farther 
away. 

“I’ll  be  down  to  Padanaram  to  see 
you  off,"  he  shouted  after  them.  “See 
that  you’ve  sea  room  passin1  the 
islands.  I  can’t  have  you  wreckin' 
my  ships  like  you  wrecked  them 
chaises.” 

The  shouting  stopped.  The  girl’s 
voice  floated  down  to  him,  full  of  quick 
pride. 

“They’re  mounted  and  gone,  father, 
but  Burden’s  grey  is  ahead." 

IDEON  Wing  was  still  chuckling 
to  himself  when  he  came  down 
before  daylight  to  clamber  into  his  own 


WHALES'  WAY 


chaise  the  negro  hostler  held  in  read¬ 
iness. 

“Just  a  minute,  father,’1  called 
Miss  Priscilla,  flattering  toward  him 
through  the  dim  light.  “I  have  an 
interest  in  that  race,  you  know.  Make 
room  for  me  there  beside  you.” 

They  rode  down  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  shore  and  waited,  breathless. 

Down  the  long  harbor,  their  sails 
stretched  like  the  wings  of  some 
mighty  seagull  slanting  before  the 
wind,  the  two  sister  ships  stood  out 
upon  the  long  run  that  would  carry 
them  southward  around  Cape  Horn 
and  thousands  of  miles  beyond  into  the 
Pacific  before  they  would  strike  the 
island  where  they  were  to  enlist  more 
men  for  their  crews  and  start  the  pur¬ 
suit  of  the  monster  whales. 

The  rising  sun  tinged  the  new  white 
canvas  with  rose,  the  black  hulls 
glinted  with  fresh  coatings  of  paint, 
and  white  water  creamed  in  a  bone 
at  each  blunt  bow  as  the  heavy  ships 
went  streaming  off  toward  the  distant 
sea.  A  rooster  on  the  Albatross  crowed 
lustily  and  a  crated  pig  on  the  Petrel 
squealed  in  terror.  Then  conch  shells 
brayed  a  greeting  as  keen  eyes  spotted 
owner  and  daughter  on  the  shore.  Col¬ 
ors  dipped.  Guns  boomed.  A  faint 
cheer  from  the  crews  wafted  to  their 
ears. 

“Neck  and  neck,”  chuckled  Gideon 
Wing,  nodding  as  the  two  ships  forged 
past.  “Like  them  two  always  have 
been.  Either  one  of  ’em'll  make  you 
a  fine,  respectable  husband,  girl.  Get 
this  silly  romance  idea  out  of  your 
head  while  they’re  gone,  and  take  the 
one  as  leads  home.” 

“I  have  promised  that  I  will,”  said 
Miss  Priscilla  meekly,  although  her 
eyes  never  left  the  Petrel  to  give  the 
Albatross  a  glance. 


69 

"Good  girl,”  he  murmured,  patting 
her  hand  with  his  own  dry  palrn.  “1 
can’t  loiter  around  here  forever  on 
borrowed  time.  Got  to  be  thinkin’ 
who’ll  carry  on  for  the  Wings.” 

SIDE  by  side  the  two  barks  went 
tearing  out  toward  the  sea. 
Mishaum  Point  slipped  astern.  They 
breasted  Penikese  Island  and  then  Cut¬ 
ty  hunk.  Gay  head,  on  the  end  of 

Martha’s  Vineyard,  saw  them  separat¬ 
ing  slightly,  but  no  observer  could 
have  told  which  one  was  leading.  Then 
No-Man’s- Land,  that  possible  stopping 
place  of  early  Norse  visitors,  was  be¬ 
hind  them  and  only  the  open  Atlantic 
before. 

“Clap  studdin’  s'l  yards  on  her  fore¬ 
mast,”  ordered  Chase,  after  a  scowling 
survey  of  the  Albatross. 

“Think  she’ll  stand  ’em,  sir?”  asked 
Abel  Trueman,  mate  of  the  Petrel,  his 
seamed  face  anxious. 

Any  other  master  of  the  time  would 
have  reprimanded  him  roundly  for  that 
seeming  questioning  of  authority,  but 
Burden  Chase  had  early  established  the 
custom  of  getting  opinions  from  his 
officers  and  even  from  his  men. 

“We’ll  try  it  anyway,”  he  called 
with  the  finality  that  they  all  knew  and 
respected.  “If  we’ve  poor  yards  we 
might  as  well  know  it  now.  We’ve 
got  to  be  first  at  the  island  to  get 
the  pick  of  the  men.  A  lot  depends 
on  that.  Bend  ’em  on,  mister.” 

The  men  were  taken  from  the  task 
of  stowing  down  the  clutter  on  the 
decks  and  sent  aloft  to  spread  extra 
canvas  to  the  light  breeze.  The  bark 
plowed  almost  directly  eastward,  to 
cross  the  Gulf  Stream  and  evade  the 
upward  sweep  of  its  powerful  current 
before  heading  southward  toward  the 
distant  Horn. 


70 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


The  sails  went  up  slowly  in  spite 
of  willing  hands.  The  need  for  men 
in  ever  increasing  numbers  for  the 
whaling  vessels  that  left  these  parts 
had  already  stripped  shore  and  farm 
of  the  most  promising  and  ablest.  Of 
late,  ships  must  put  to  sea  with  green 
hands  who  must  be  whipped  into  shape 
enroute. 

The  wind  increased.  By  noon  the 
Petrel  was  tearing  eastward  like  a  run¬ 
away  horse,  heeled  far  over  under  the 
strong  southwest  wind,  her  cordage 
creaking.  Far  to  port  and  dropping 
steadily  astern  as  those  studding  sails 
gave  the  Petrel  a  decided  advantage,  the 
Albatross  was  plainly  taking  their  wake. 

“The  pick  of  the  islanders,”  mused 
Captain  Chase,  well  pleased  with  his 
lead.  “Good  crew  often  means  a  quick 
loading.” 

A  slight  squall  struck  them.  They 
heeled  swiftly,  came  up  from  under 
the  impact.  Captain  and  mate  ex¬ 
changed  glances.  The  mate,  older, 
more  cautious,  shook  a  doubting  head. 

“We’ve  good  spars  aloft,"  exulted 
Chase.  "We'll  beat  ’em  to  Tali  Mahi." 

Another  squall  brought  a  threaten¬ 
ing  crack  from  aloft.  Then,  even  while 
mate  and  skipper  prayed  it  wouldn't 
happen,  the  cracking  fore  topmast 
crashed  under  the  fierce  tug  of  an¬ 
other  gust  in  the  billowing  white. 
Yards  toppled,  stays  snapped,  canvas 
fell  with  the  swaying  flutter  of  a 
giant  crippled  bird,  to  thrash  and 
pound  and  flap  in  a  wild  eagerness  to 
be  free. 

Before  anybody  could  move  to  cut 
the  wreckage  away,  another  and  an¬ 
other  fierce  gust  hit  them.  The  main 
topmast,  burdened  by  that  unusual 
forward  drag,  snapped  its  stays  and 
pitched  with  a  crash. 

“Up  and  into  it  to  cut  away  before 


we're  dismantled,”  screamed  Captain 
Chase.  Then,  as  his  men  loitered, 
afraid  to  venture  aloft,  he  leaped  past 
them. 

Any  other  master  would  have 
snatched  a  belaying  pin  from  the 
neighboring  rack  and  smacked  heads 
with  it.  But  Burden  Chase  knew  that 
these  were  farm  lads  instead  of  sailors. 
The  roll  of  the  sea  had  turned  many 
of  them  a  ghastly  green  with  sea¬ 
sickness  already.  A  little  kindness  in 
leadership  now  might  bear  big  divi¬ 
dends  in  the  long  cruise  ahead. 

“Follow  us,  men,"  he  roared,  and 
waved  Trueman  into  the  lee  rigging 
while  he  went  to  windward. 

Even  as  the  captain  hurled  by,  he 
snatched  a  knife  from  the  sheath  on 
the  hip  of  a  goggle-eyed  starer.  With 
the  blade  between  his  teeth,  he 

swarmed  up  the  ratlines.  Eyes  flash¬ 
ing,  arms  reaching,  legs  pumping 

madly  to  carry  him  up  the  ropes,  he 
fought  to  get  aloft  before  that  wild 
mare’s  nest  could  carry  away  the 
mizzen-top  as  well. 

His  left  hand  held  firmly  to  the 
stay,  the  knife  flashing  in  his  right. 
The  keen  blade  sheared  hemp,  sent 
billowing  canvas  to  spill  harmlessly 

and  relieve  the  strain  on  threatened 

gear.  Behind  him  swarmed  the  men 
and  Trueman.  Their  own  knives  out, 
their  fumbling  hands  eager  to  follow 
the  example  he  set  them,  they  were 
doing  their  best  to  help  clear. 

Meanwhile  the  helmsman,  at  the  nod 
the  captain  had  given  him  as  the  mast 
snapped,  had  headed  them  up  into  the 
wind  to  relieve  the  strain  on  the  gear 
left  standing.  With  some  of  the  sails 
aback  and  the  fallen  canvas  a  tangle, 
they  wallowed  in  the  rising  seas  while 
the  Albatross  drew  swiftly  abreast, 
brought  near  enough  for  her  exultant 


'lHere*i  proof.1 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


72 

skipper  to  send  his  hail  booming  down 
the  gusty  wind. 

“See  you  in  Tali  Mahi,"  jeered  Ken¬ 
yon/’ —  if  you  ever  make  it.  I'd  throw 
you  a  tow  rope,  only  I’m  sure  nobody 
aboard  you  is  seaman  enough  to  make 
her  fast." 

Then  the  wind  carried  him  past, 
leaving  the  Petrel  fluttering  like  a  bird 
with  a  broken  wing  in  the  gathering 
dusk. 

GRIMLY  Burden  Chase  drove  his 
men  to  replace  that  damaged 
gear  with  new  from  the  supply  lashed 
on  deck.  Grimly  he  searched  the 
horizon  during  the  long  weeks  that 
followed  as  they  crowded  on  sail  and 
hurried  southward.  But  no  sign  of  the 
rival  bark  appeared  as  they  raced 
through  the  tropics,  fought  westward 
around  the  Horn,  and  tore  across  the 
broad  Pacific. 

Not  until  they  raised  the  jagged 
outline  of  the  island  where  his  owner 
had  instructed  him  to  seek  fresh  pro¬ 
visions  and  new  hands  did  he  sight 
those  familiar  topmasts  again.  Then 
he  saw  the  Albatross  sweeping  grandly 
out  from  the  harbor,  her  yards  filled 
with  triumphant  men  jeering  and 
mocking  the  slower  ship. 

There  was  no  time  for  a  gam,  but 
Amos  Kenyon  could  not  resist  the  op¬ 
portunity  to  haul  alongside  and  tell  of 
his  success. 

“Got  the  best  of  the  lot,”  he  called 
exultantly.  “Wish  you  luck  recruitin'. 
Whales  reported  by  the  fishin’  canoes 
to  the  north’ard.  Come  up  and  we’ll 
show  you  how  to  take  ’em.” 

It  was  fully  four  hours  later,  after 
beating  into  the  little  harbor,  that 
Burden  Chase  understood  the  full  im¬ 
port  of  Kenyon’s  words.  There  had 
been  no  rush  of  girls  swimming  eagerly 


out  to  meet  them,  no  throng  hurrying 
to  the  shore.  Instead  the  canoes  were 
missing  from  the  beach,  the  huts  in  the 
cocoanut  grove  were  apparently  de¬ 
serted,  and  nobody  stirred  anywhere 
in  sight. 

Ordering  a  gun  fired  to  announce 
their  arrival,  he  hoped  to  bring  back 
the  natives,  who  must  have  gone  in  a 
body  to  some  of  their  community  pur¬ 
suits.  But  the  echoes  rang  back  from 
the  volcanic  crags  that  towered  men¬ 
acingly  half  a  mite  behind  the  wooded 
strip  along  the  shore.  There  was  no 
answering  hail  of  pleasure  such  as 
Chase  had  always  encountered  before. 

“Lower  a  boat,"  said  Chase,  his  brow 
darkening.  “I  don’t  like  the  looks  of 
things." 

Trueman  sidled  nearer,  scowling 
from  under  bushy  brows. 

“They  ain’t  strained  their  selves 
none  hangin’  out  no  welcome  signs, 
have  they?”  he  offered.  “You  reckon 
you’ll  be  safe  ’thout  firearms?” 

Burden  Chase  laughed.  “I’ve  been 
here  three  times  before,”  he  chuckled, 
“and  never  needed  a  gun  yet.  I’d  as 
soon  think  of  taking  a  gun  to  Quaker 
Meeting  at  Russell's  Mills.” 

The  huts  proved  as  deserted  as  they 
had  seemed  from  the  shore.  There  was 
nobody  in  sight  anywhere. 

Fearlessly  he  started  up  the  path 
that  he  knew  led  to  an  interior  valley 
where  they  did  their  limited  planting 
of  taro  root.  Then  his  blood  chilled  at 
what  he  saw  barring  his  way. 

Stuck  on  short  sticks  of  varying 
lengths,  their  tops  surmounted  by 
cocoanut-husk  hair  and  gaudy  feathers, 
two  score  ugly  masks  were  ranged 
from  wall  to  wall  of  the  dense  jungle 
that  lifted  at  either  side  of  the  narrow 
way.  Grinning,  threatening,  twisted 
into  horrible  contortion,  the  crude 


WHALES'  WAY 


73 


replicas  of  fantastic  human  faces  pre¬ 
sented  a  definite  check  to  an  advance. 

He  knew  what  those  masks  meant. 
These  were  devil  frighteners  that  the 
natives  had  erected  to  keep  their  en¬ 
emies  from  following.  Passing  those 
hideous  faces  was  the  equivalent  of  a 
declaration  of  war,  unless  he  was  es¬ 
corted  past  by  a  member  of  the  tribe 
erecting  the  taboo. 

Jumping  at  the  conclusion  that  Ken¬ 
yon  had  in  some  way  aroused  the  anger 
of  the  good  natured  islanders,  he  stood 
staring  at  the  masks.  The  inland  valley 
was  too  far  away  for  his  voice  to  carry, 
even  if  he  shouted.  If  he  pressed  on,  he 
might  be  struck  down  by  the  blow  of  a 
warclub  or  pierced  with  poisoned  ar¬ 
rows. 

Thoughts  of  the  rival  bark  killing 
whales  to  the  northward  embittered 
him.  Unless  he  could  find  helpers  on 
this  island  he  must  lose  precious  time 
searching  for  recruits  elsewhere.  Mean¬ 
while  the  whales  would  be  sweeping 
past  in  their  mighty  pilgrimage  and  he 
might  see  no  more  of  them  for  months, 
giving  the  Albatross  a  lead  he  could 
not  hope  to  overtake, 

YET  he  stood  there,  respectfully 
bowing  before  the  island  fetish,  his 
heart  heavy  with  apprehension.  Sud¬ 
denly  from  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  de¬ 
tected  a  slight  movement  and  turned  to 
stare.  Immobile,  a  nearly  nude  savage 
stood  within  the  greenery,  perfectly 
camouflaged  by  the  flecks  of  light  and 
shade  on  his  painted  and  tattooed  skin. 

“Hello,  there,”  called  Chase  cheer¬ 
fully.  "Do  you  understand  me?” 
There  was  no  answer. 

“I  am  a  friend  of  Leli,  the  chief,” 
Chase  called.  “Tell  him  that  Captain 
Chase  has  sent  his  son  to  visit  him.” 
There  came  an  incredulous  grunt 


from  another  spot.  A  second  figure, 
bigger,  older,  shoved  past  the  first.  A 
scowling  face  peered  out  at  him,  the 
blue  tattooing  on  the  features  giving 
the  eye  an  appearance  of  startled 
wonder. 

“You  Cap’n  Chase’  son?”  grunted 
the  voice. 

“I  am.  You’re  Hargi,  aren't  you?  Re¬ 
member  how  you  used  to  teach  me  the 
ways  of  your  people  when  I  was  so 
high?” 

There  was  no  confirmation,  although 
the  doubting  ey,es  followed  the  meas¬ 
uring  movement.  A  spear  thrust 
through  the  brush,  its  head  studded  for 
fully  three  feet  with  sharks’  teeth. 
Chase  knew  that  they  had  probably 
been  dipped  in  deadly  poison.  With 
a  slight  shudder  he  restrained  the 
natural  impulse  to  grasp  the  blade. 

The  native  scowled  and  came  a  step 
closer,  his  eyes  searching  the  face  that 
had  aged  and  matured  since  Chase  had 
visited  the  island. 

"Here’s  proof,”  grinned  the  captain, 
rolling  up  his  left  sleeve. 

There  in  the  smooth  white  of  his  in¬ 
ner  forearm  was  the  small  blue  tattoo 
mark  that  he  had  allowed  the  island 
expert  to  prick  into  his  flesh  as  a  sop 
to  the  man’s  ambition  to  decorate  his 
whole  body,  especially  his  face. 

Hargi  looked,  grunted,  broke  into  a 
broad  grin  of  delight. 

“Cap’n  Chase  good,”  he  nodded.  “You 
good.”  Then  his  face  darkened  again. 
“But  other  white  man  bad.” 

Chase  nodded,  understanding.  He 
realized  that  the  whaling  vessels  often 
brought  disease  and  bitterness  to  these 
trusting  children  of  Nature.  Many  a 
skipper,  short  handed  through  deser¬ 
tion  and  sickness,  had  recruited  by  brute 
force  in  the  islands.  Men  had  often 
been  carried  away  with  the  promise  of 


74 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


being’  returned,  only  to  find  the  islands 
thousands  of  miles  away  when  the  ship 
was  finally  filled  and  ready  for  home.  A 
few  of  these  unhappy  wretches  had  sur¬ 
vived  the  inhumanities  of  white  cities 
and  white  sailing  masters  to  trickle 
back  to  the  islands  with  their  tales  of 
ill  treatment  and  abuse. 

But  Burden  Chase  knew  that  he  must 
find  recruits  there  if  he  hoped  to  fill  his 
empty  casks  with  oil.  Kenyon  was  al¬ 
ready  on  the  grounds,  might  even  now 
be  fast  to  a  whale.  If  the  Pttrel  was  to 
have  any  chance  in  this  epic  race,  he 
must  fill  his  half  empty  forecastle. 

“Take  me  to  Leli,”  he  said. 

Although  he  was  eager  to  be  off  in 
pursuit  of  the  whales  the  canoes  had 
reported  to  the  northward,  he  knew 
that  he  must  curb  his  impatience  long 
enough  to  satisfy  the  grievances  that 
the  islanders  held  against  whaling  mas¬ 
ters,  or  there  would  be  trouble  for  the 
Wing  ships  that  must  often  call  here 
for  supplies. 

“Leli  sick,”  grunted  Hargi.  “No 
can  see.” 

“What  is  wrong?  I’m  a  doctor  like 
my  father.” 

It  was  true,  for  the  whaling  skipper 
of  the  period  must  be  doctor,  dentist, 
judge,  and  preacher  to  his  family.  His 
kit  included  the  best  books  obtainable 
on  medicine  and  the  limited  surgery  of 
the  time.  There  was  even  a  razor  safely 
tucked  away  in  black  pepper  to  prevent 
ru$t  from  damaging  its  keen  blade  in 
the  salt  air,  a  razor  that  his  father  had 
lashed  back  with  fine  wire  to  insure  a 
minimum  of  play  in  the  handle  while  he 
amputated  a  man’s  leg  that  had  been 
caught  in  the  bight  of  a  running  line 
as  a  whale  sounded.  The  very  pair  of 
forceps  with  which  Lemuel  Chase  had 
taken  an  ulcerating  tooth  from  Chief 


Leli's  jaw,  rotting  with  necrosis,  was 
also  in  his  kit. 

Hargi  lifted  one  hand  to  his  tattooed 
face,  pretending  to  gouge  out  bits  with 
the  nails.  Chase  understood.  That  must 
mean  the  smallpox,  always  a  deadly 
malady  among  primitive  peoples. 

“Many  sick,”  explained  Hargi. 
“Many  die.” 

Chase  had  stopped,  even  as  he  started 
to  follow  the  native  through  the  ugly 
masks,  The  tattooed  face  turned  back 
at  him. 

“You  ’fraid?” 

Through  the  captain’s  head  was  rac¬ 
ing  the  memory  of  that  lecture  he  had 
heard  from  a  doctor  in  New  Bedford,  a 
doctor  who  had  just  returned  from 
Europe  with  new  ideas  from  men  who 
believed  that  they  had  found  a  way  to 
defeat  the  dread  disease,  smallpox.  Did 
he  dare,  limited  as  that  knowledge  was, 
suspicious  as  these  natives  were,  to  at¬ 
tempt  to  use  that  new  inoculation  on 
the  survivors  as  yet  untouched? 

“TTARGI,”  he  began,  “the  white 

■L  A  medicine  men  have  a  new  magic 
for  this  trouble.  It  does  no  good  for 
those  who  are  sick  already,  but  it  keeps 
a  man  from  catching  it  if  he  has  not 
taken  it.  Have  many  escaped  it?” 

The  native  nodded  and  explained  in 
his  pigeon  English.  The  disease  had 
been  brought  by  a  whaling  vessel.  The 
captain  had  put  some  sick  men  ashore, 
warning  the  natives  to  keep  away  from 
them  and  explaining  that  the  disease 
was  catching.  But  the  kind  hearted 
natives  had  been  unable  to  stay  away 
from  the  moaning  sufferers.  Some  of 
them  had  taken  fruits  to  the  sick,  had 
caught  the  pox,  and  had  been  isolated 
themselves  in  another  tiny  island  val¬ 
ley,  where  Leli  was  now  lying  ill  with 
the  dread  disease.  Because  the  whaling 


WHALES’  WAY 


captain  had  warned  of  the  need  of  iso¬ 
lation,  the  islanders  had  been  able  to 
maintain  a  fairly  successful  quarantine. 
Less  than  half  of  the  inhabitants  had 
been  exposed. 

"Wait  here  for  me,”  said  Chase  with 
decision,  as  Hargi  finished  explaining, 
"I  think  I  can  save  those  others.” 

The  scowling  Trueman  leaped  for  a 
rifle  as  he  saw  the  captain  running  back 
through  the  grove.  ‘Til  hold  off  the 
brown  devils,”  he  called,  throwing  the 
piece  to  his  shoulder.  "You’re  safe 
now,  cap’n,” 

Chase  grinned  and  sent  his  own  voice 
booming  out  to  the  anchored  bark. 
"Send  my  medicine  kit  ashore,  Mister 
Trueman.  They’re  sick  with  smallpox. 
I'm  going  to  inoculate  ’em.” 

“And  bring  it  back  aboard?  We 
won’t  stand  for  it.  The  boys  shipped 
aboard  here  to  hunt  whales,  not  to  doc* 
tor  no  sick  savages.” 

"Send  off  my  medicine  kit.” 

That  tone  in  the  roar  should  have 
warned  Trueman,  but  the  mate  was  ter¬ 
rified  at  the  mention  of  the  disease. 

"I  won’t,”  he  screamed.  "We’re  all 
partners  in  the  welfare  o’  this  here  ship. 
The  rest  of  us  won't  stand  for  such 
doin’s” 

Chase  leaped  into  the  boat,  his  face 
purple. 

“Lay  me  alongside  in  a  hurry,”  he 
growled. 

Swift  oars  sent  the  whale  boat  cut¬ 
ting  through  the  water.  As  the  small 
craft  drew  to  the  bark,  Captain  Chase 
vaulted  lightly  aboard  to  face  the  ring 
of  indignant  men  that  backed  Trueman. 

"We’re  afraid  of  the  smallpox,” 
whined  Trueman.  "We  want  whales, 
not  sickness.” 

Their  captain  turned  blazing  eyes 
upon  them. 

"I’ve  been  easy  with  you  all,”  he  be¬ 


75 

gan.  "I’ve  spared  you  all  I  could,  for 
I'm  the  kind  of  skipper  that  believes  in 
treating  his  men  like  men.  But  there 
are  times  when  a  captain  expects  to  be 
obeyed  without  hesitation  or  argument. 
This  is  one  of  those  times.” 

Trueman  started  to  murmur,  but 
Chase  cut  him  short  with  a  look. 

"It's  true  we’re  here  to  hunt  whales, 
but  where’ll  we  be  unless  we’ve  men  to 
handle  the  boats  and  cut  in  the  blubber? 
A  few  days  spent  in  getting  these 
islanders  in  a  friendly  mood  will  mean 
quicker  loadin’  later.” 

They  still  loitered,  hangdog  and  sul¬ 
len. 

"I’m  going  to  tell  you  men  some¬ 
thing,”  Chase  said  quickly.  "Gideon 
Wing  told  me,  the  last  night  before  we 
sailed,  of  a  secret  that  Captain  John 
Avery  learned  on  this  very  island  about 
the  course  of  sperm  whales.  That  secret 
is  worth  thousands  of  dollars.  If  we 
learn  it,  we  can  be  filling  durin’  two  or 
three  months  of  each  year  while  the 
other  ships  are  idle.  On  top  of  that, 
there’ll  be  a  ten  thousand  dollar  bonus 
to  the  man  that  finds  that  course.  I’ll 
split  that  reward,  according  to  your 
lays,  with  every  man  jack  aboard  if  we 
learn  the  secret.” 

The  shout  that  greeted  this  announce¬ 
ment  told  him  that  he  had  won  them. 
Then  he  held  up  his  hands  for  quiet. 

"But  there’s  one  thing  you’ve  got  to 
do,  men.  You’ve  got  to  trust  your  cap’n. 
You've  every  one  of  you  got  to  let  me 
inoculate  you  against  the  smallpox, 
just  as  I’m  going  to  inoculate  the 
islanders.  Them’re  orders,  men.” 

"A  murmur  started.  A  few  who  had 
drawn  away  from  the  mate  now  sidled 
back  to  stand  behind  him.  Trueman 
took  courage. 

"I’m  ag’in  it,”  he  screamed.  "I  don’t 
want  to  die  away  off  here  of  the  stinkin’ 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


70 

plague,  nor  live  through  it  to  look  like 
a  lumber  man  had  been  dancin'  on  me 
with  his  caulked  boots.” 

“Afraid  of  spoiling  that  handsome 
visage  of  yours,  eh?”  grinned  Captain 
Chase. 

There  was  a  giggle  at  the  thrust, 
then  a  mighty  guffaw  of  laughter,  Abel 
Trueman  could  never  hope  to  win  any¬ 
thing  but  a  booby  prize  at  a  beauty 
show,  no  matter  where  the  sponsors 
sought  for  talent.  In  the  face  of  that 
remark,  nobody  cared  to  hold  back 
longer,  for  the  laughter  had  dispelled 
their  fear. 

One  by  one  they  came  to  Chase  with 
bared  arms  and  terrified  faces,  for  in¬ 
oculation  was  still  a  debated  question, 
even  among  the  medical  men.  One  by 
one  Chase  gouged  at  those  arms,  com¬ 
pleted  the  performance  that  he  hur¬ 
riedly  reviewed  from  a  pamphlet  spread 
before  him  as  he  worked. 

"I’m  like  the  feller  what  got  it  back 
in  Westport,”  grinned  Artie  Terry,  the 
forecastle’s  comedian.  “He  said  if  that 
was  only  a  little  pox  he’d  hate  to  see 
a  big  one.” 

Laughing,  kidding  each  other  to  hide 
their  own  fears,  they  submitted  one  by 
one.  Finally  Chase  shut  his  bag  and 
swung  over  the  rail. 

“Mind,  I’m  not  promising  to  discover 
that  whale  track,”  he  warned.  “I’m  only 
hopin’.  If  I  do  find  it,  you  all  share  in 
the  ten  thousand.  That’s  a  promise.” 

Having  been  inoculated  himself  be¬ 
fore  sailing,  he  was  not  afraid  of  the 
disease.  But  his  heart  sank  as  Hargi  led 
him  into  the  valley  w  here  the  formerly 
friendly  people  were  hiding  from  the 
twin  terrors  of  the  white  man  and  his 
disease. 

Scowling  faces  replaced  the  laughing 
welcomes  of  the  past.  Even  the  women 
and  children,  usually  naively  friendly, 


scuttled  into  the  huts  with  little  moans 
of  terror  at  sight  of  him.  Men  stood 
stiffly  to  watch  them  pass,  frowning 
their  evident  disapproval  at  Hargi  for 
bringing  another  white  man  among 
them. 

Even  the  explanation  that  Hargi  be¬ 
gan  in  their  own  tongue  as  soon  as  he 
reached  the  council  house  did  not  assure 
them.  Their  faces  remained  stoical. 
Chase  knew  that  his  father’s  friendly 
attitude  was  under  discussion. 

"Tell  them  I  have  come  to  halt  the 
disease  that  burns  them  with  fever  and 
leaves  them  with  the  pits  in  their  faces,” 
he  offered  at  last. 

But  that  translation  by  Hargi  was  far 
from  enough.  Neither  was  the  detailed 
explanation  of  the  new  magic  sufficient. 
They  must  know  why  other  whaling 
masters  did  not  use  this  magic  to  keep 
their  own  men  from  suffering.  They 
must  question  and  stare  and  shake  their 
heads,  and  otherwise  delay  for  hours 
that  stretched  into  days. 

Chase  went  to  their  sick  chief  in  de¬ 
spair.  He  found  him  recovering  from  a 
severe  attack  of  the  disease,  bis  eyes 
running,  his  skin  horribly  disfigured. 
There  followed  days  of  explanation  to 
him,  coaxing,  scolding,  threatening, 
bribing. 

IN  THE  midst  of  these  negotiations, 
weary  with  trying  to  win  his  way 
against  ignorant  and  superstitious  ob¬ 
jections,  the  young  captain  was  rowed 
back  to  the  ship  one  night  to  find  True¬ 
man  heading  another  minor  threat  of 
mutiny.  Off  to  the  northward,  lighting 
the  skyline,  the  red  flares  of  distant  try- 
works  proclaimed  that  some  ship,  prob¬ 
ably  the  Albatross,  had  killed  and  was  try¬ 
ing  out  oil,  working  day  and  night. 

“This  here  ends  our  loiterin’,”  said 
Trueman  savagely.  “Nobody  but  a 


WHALES’  WAY 


pack  o’  fools'd  stick  around  here  tryin’ 
to  save  a  bunch  o’  niggers  that  don’t 
want  your  medicine.  I’m  for  headin' 
off  and  gettin’  some  blubber  aboard." 

Captain  Chase  was  tired  and  irritable. 
His  temper  was  short. 

“We’re  here  and  we’re  stayin’  here 
until  I  give  orders  to  go.’’  he  snapped 

"And  we  thought  we’d  shipped  with 
a  man,  not  a  mummy  cussed  idjit,” 
moaned  Trueman. 

Chase  wheeled  on  him,  his  eyes  flash¬ 
ing. 

“I’m  man  enough  to  knock  your 
whining  words  down  your  throat  if 
you’re  man  enough  to  stand  up  and  take 
it,"  he  snapped. 

Trueman  leered  at  him.  “If  I  make 
you  say  'uncle’  we’ll  head  off  to  the 
grounds?" 

Chase  nodded,  his  eyes  narrow  slits. 
"And  if  I  lick  you,  you  keep  a  civil 
tongue  in  your  head  for  the  rest  of  the 
voyage.  Agreed  ?” 

Trueman  whipped  off  his  shirt,  stand¬ 
ing  with  bulging  muscles  and  massive 
shoulders.  Captain  Chase  merely  re¬ 
moved  his  coat  and  rolled  up  his  sleeves. 
Although  Trueman  had  a  decided  ad¬ 
vantage  in  height,  weight,  and  reach, 
the  skipper  had  an  equal  one  in  calm 
assurance. 

The  men  formed  hurriedly,  grinning 
at  the  prospects. 

"Everything  goes,”  called  Trueman. 
"It’s  a  he-man  fight.” 

"Suits  me,”  said  Captain  Chase 
tersely. 

The  mate  rushed  like  a  bull,  his  head 
low  to  butt,  his  great  arms  flailing  like 
a  windmill’s.  Chase  sidestepped  and 
smacked  in  a  terrific  wallop  to  exposed 
ribs  as  the  big  form  went  past  him.  The 
blow  brought  a  wheezing  grunt  of  sur¬ 
prise  from  Trueman  and  a  roar  of  de¬ 


77 

light  from  the  crew.  Then  the  big 
form  came  charging  back  again. 

This  time  the  arms  groped  instead  of 
striking. 

But  Captain  Chase  did  not  evade 
those  groping  arms.  Instead  he  stepped 
quickly  between  them,  facing  the 
crouching  mate. 

The  crew  gasped  again.  Those 
mighty  arms  were  around  the  slender 
waist,  closing  threateningly  while  the 
bullet  head  struck  the  skipper  in  the 
chest.  In  a  quick  yank  the  mate  could 
have  the  captain  at  his  mercy  in  a  back¬ 
breaking  snap  that  might  cripple  him 
for  life. 

But  Captain  Chase  was  no  novice  at 
this  game  of  wrestling.  Even  as  those 
great  paws  locked  behind  the  small  of 
his  back  and  the  arms  began  to  close 
in  a  punishing  hug,  the  lithe  body 
twisted. 

Back  to  the  hugging  giant,  his  own 
feet  wide  apart,  the  skipper  bent  swift¬ 
ly  forward,  his  arms  groping  swiftly 
between  his  spraddled  legs. 

It  was  evident  to  the  watchers,  be¬ 
fore  his  hands  found  their  target,  that 
he  was  still  at  a  disadvantage.  The 
great  mate  might  pick  him  up  with  a 
crotch  hold  and  slam  him  to  the  deck, 
falling  heavily  upon  him.  Then  those 
smaller  hands  found  their  quest,  closed 
like  a  vise  around  one  knee  of  the 
straining  giant.  Even  as  those  great 
arms  clamped  right  around  the  slender 
waist,  the  captain  threw  himself  back¬ 
ward  against  the  great  chest  that  was 
pressed  against  his  back,  pulling  for¬ 
ward  with  all  his  strength  against  that 
imprisoned  knee  and  sitting  down  for¬ 
cibly  upon  the  thigh. 

The  backward  heave  upset  the  mate, 
who  could  not  hop  back  fast  enough 
on  his  one  free  leg  to  hold  his  bal¬ 
ance.  Even  as  he  tried  a  hop,  the 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


78 

lithe  captain  swung  ever  so  slightly 
and  the  mate  crashed  to  the  deck, 
falling  over  backward  with  the  skipper 
landing  solidly  on  his  ribs. 

That  crash  took  all  the  fight  out  of 
the  mate.  The  skipper’s  fall  had 
cracked  two  of  the  big  man’s  ribs,  leav¬ 
ing  him  gasping  out  an  admission  of 
defeat 

As  he  was  strapping  up  the  side  of 
the  humbled  mate,  Captain  Chase  noted 
the  festering  inoculation  mark  on  the 
other’s  arm  and  inspiration  struck  him. 

“Terry  and  Manchester,”  he  called, 
turning  from  the  patient,  “tumble  into 
the  boat  and  set  me  ashore.  I  think 
we’ve  got  their  objections  licked.” 

Instead  of  leaving  the  men  with  the 
boat,  as  was  his  custom,  he  called  to 
them  to  follow  and  went  striding  off 
up  the  path.  Facing  the  old  chieftain, 
he  bared  his  own  arm  to  show  his  vac¬ 
cination  scar  and  then  pointed  to  the 
two  pussy  inoculations. 

His  detailed  explanation  won  the 
day.  The  old  chief  grinned,  expos¬ 
ing  toothless  gums.  Excited  at  the 
prospect  of  saving  his  people,  he  called 
in  the  interpreter. 

But  not  all  of  the  natives  would 
accept  the  inoculation.  More  inde¬ 
pendent  than  most  sovereign  peoples, 
they  insisted  upon  the  right  of  refusal. 

“It’s  all  right  with  me,”  snapped 
Chase,  sick  of  bickering,  “I’ll  give  it 
to  those  who  want  it.  The  rest  can 
take  their  own  chances.” 

HE  WORKED  diligently,  spurred 
on  by  the  renewed  grumbling  of 
his  men,  who  saw  those  pillars  of  black 
smoke  by  day  and  red  flares  by  night 
to  convince  them  that  Kenyon  and  his 
crew  were  taking  whales  to  the  north¬ 
ward.  When  an  excited  fisherman 
came  running  in  from  the  reef  where 


he  had  been  spearing  fish  to  report  a 
whale  lying  in  sight  just  off  the  island, 
Captain  Chase  could  no  longer  restrain 
them.  Trueman,  ignoring  his  stiff  side, 
tumbled  a  crew  into  his  boat  and  went 
pulling  out  through  the  surf. 

Watching  with  interest,  the  skipper 
saw  the  bow  oarsman  boat  his  short  oar 
and  lift  the  harpoon  as  they  slid  to¬ 
ward  that  huge  black  carcass.  The 
muffled  cry  of  Trueman  came  wafting 
over  the  snore  of  the  surf  to  reach  his 
ears.  “  'Vast  rowin’.  Let  him  have  it, 
Norman !  Stand  by  to  back  water,  men. 
Normaif,  you  lubber,  iron  him!  Dart! 
Dart  I" 

Suddenly  the  small  figure  in  the  bow 
bent  backward,  heaved  the  clumsy  har¬ 
poon  with  its  whipping  tail  of  hemp. 
The  weapon  arched  high,  turned  point 
downward,  and  sank  deep  into  the 
yielding  blubber  to  bury  the  barb  in 
solid  flesh  beneath.  Instantly  the  men 
churned  backward  on  their  oars,  the 
harpooner  danced  aft  down  one  gunnel 
to  take  his  place  as  boatsteerer,  and  the 
mate  ran  forward  along  the  other  to 
tend  the  whipping  line.  Even  as  this 
complicated  maneuver  was  taking  place 
the  monster  lifted  his  broad  flukes, 
rolled  his  blunt  head  under  with  a 
mighty  surge,  and  flashed  from  sight 
with  a  lunge  that  brought  his  great 
tail  down  upon  the  water  with  a  spite¬ 
ful  smack  scarcely  two  fathoms  from 
the  retreating  boat. 

Trueman’s  cheer  of  defiance,  as  he 
bent  to  tend  the  line  that  smoked  over¬ 
board  through  the  groove  in  the  bow, 
followed  hard  on  that  resounding  echo 
of  the  slap.  Captain  Chase  grinned 
with  delight  as  the  boat  whirled  and 
shot  seaward  in  response  to  the  tug 
of  that  running  line,  as  the  mate  caught 
a  turn  of  it  around  the  Samson  post 
in  the  bow. 


WHALES'  WAY 


79 


"Shall  we  up  anchor  and  after  'em?” 
called  Second  Mate  Hart,  his  rueful 
face  expressing  his  disappointment 
that  his  own  boat  had  not  been  in  at 
the  harpooning. 

"No,”  called  Chase,  from  where  he 
was  inoculating  doubtful  islanders  un¬ 
der  the  cocoanut  trees,  "let  'em  tow 
back  if  they  kill.  A  good  long  pull  at 
the  oars  might  take  some  of  the  rest¬ 
lessness  out  of  ’em.  Besides,”  waving 
toward  the  watching  Leli,  “they  haven't 
had  any  whale  meat  on  the  island  for 
months  and  they’re  hankerin'  for  a 
feast." 

“But  they  might  be  capsized  lancin'," 
protested  Hart,  who  also  itched  for 
action. 

"Send  a  lookout  aloft  to  get  their 
bearings.  If  they're  not  back  by  morn- 
in’  we’ll  put  after  'em.  A  good  soakin' 
in  brine  might  help  Mister  Trueman’s 
ribs — as  well  as  his  disposition." 

But  there  was  no  need  to  put  after 
the  boat.  The  lookout  reported  by 
dusk  that  the  boat  had  killed  and  was 
towing  slowly  back  toward  the  har¬ 
bor.  It  was  long  after  dark  before  a 
faint  cry  from  the  sea  announced  their 
return.  The  whale  had  been  lanced 
some  eight  miles  away  and  the  men 
were  exhausted  from  their  long  pull, 
inching  that  monster  shoreward  by  in¬ 
credible  labor  at  the  oars. 

"Wliyn’t  you  come  down  for  us?” 
snarled  Trueman.  "You’d  wind  enough 
and  to  spare.  My  men  are  half  dead 
from  the  rowin'." 

Captain  Chase  grinned  at  him,  refus¬ 
ing  to  retort  angrily,  "It’s  a  pity  you 
didn’t  get  a  chance  to  pull  some  of 
your  fight  out  of  you  ”  he  chuckled. 
"I  thought  it’d  serve  the  same  as  snap- 
pin'  a  few  more  of  your  ribs  to  keep 
you  in  your  place.  Besides,  I  wanted 
the  whale  here." 


"To  rot  and  smell  to  heaven?  The 
natives'll  hardly  thank  you  for  the  per¬ 
fume.” 

Again  Chase  grinned  at  him.  "You’re 
new  to  the  Pacific,  Mister  Trueman," 
he  said  “These  natives  like  whale 
meat.” 

Trueman  snorted.  "By  the  time  we’re 
through  takin’  the  blubber  in  the  heat, 
the  meat'll  be  spoiled.” 

“For  our  tastes,  but  not  for  islanders. 
The  stronger  it  is,  the  better  they  like 
it.” 

THE  return  of  the  natives  to  their 
shore  village  the  next  morning  at¬ 
tested  to  his  wisdom  in  having  the 
whale  towed  back  for  trying  out.  Ev¬ 
erybody  on  the  island  able  to  travel  was 
on  hand.  The  harbor  fairly  teemed  with 
chattering  men,  gay  girls,  and  laughing 
children.  It  was  a  gala  event. 

Even  as  the  crew  swung  the  carcass 
into  position  and  lowered  the  hastily 
rigged  cutting  stage,  the  visitors  filled 
the  water  alongside  and  squatted  all 
over  the  decks.  Friendly,  cackling  in 
high-pitched  voices,  or  purring  in  softly 
slurred  vowels,  they  watched  with  the 
eager  eyes  and  licking  lips  of  the  half 
starved  in  anticipation  of  a  feast. 

Chase  chuckled  at  the  sly  craft  of 
some  of  the  visitors  who  had  attained 
the  decks.  One  old  fellow  trailed  be¬ 
hind  him  a  fishline  as  he  swam  from 
the  shore.  As  the  great  blanket  of 
blubber  came  slowly  up  the  side  of  the 
ship  to  flop  down  on  the  deck  as  a  fresh 
hole  was  made  farther  down  and  an¬ 
other  great  hook  inserted  in  the  greasy 
mass  to  relieve  the  first,  he  grinned 
and  blinked  at  the  men  on  the  cutting 
stage,  slashing  away  with  long  handled 
spades  to  flench  the  blubber  from  the 
slowly  rolling  body  in  the  water  as 
many  hands  tallied  onto  the  falls  and 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


80 

inched  up  the  great  hooks.  As  eager 
tools  sliced  the  released  slack  of  the 
blubber  blanket  into  long  strips,  others 
chopped  these  strips  into  chunks  about 
a  foot  square,  which  would  later  go  to 
the  mincer  to  be  cut  in  leaves  an  inch 
thick,  called  "prayer  books,”  which 
would  be  ready  for  the  boiling  down. 
The  old  watcher,  with  eyes  as  cunning 
to  watch  against  detection  as  the 
shrewdest  thieving  monkeys,  pounced 
on  a  chunk  of  severed  blubber,  tied  his 
fishline  around  it,  jerked  smartly  on  the 
end  that  led  to  the  shore,  and  grinned 
with  impish  delight  as  the  prayer  book 
plopped  overboard  and  went  coursing 
off  under  water,  pulled  eagerly  by  some 
accomplice  on  the  beach  retrieving  for 
him. 

Soon  the  old  native  plunged  over¬ 
board  to  go  swimming  off  ashore.  In 
less  than  half  an  hour  he  was  back 
again,  with  his  line  fastened  to  his  big 
toe,  to  renew  the  procedure.  In  the 
course  of  the  afternoon  he  sent  half  a 
dozen  chunks  to  those  waiting  friends 
and  relatives  who  gathered  around  with 
the  eagerness  of  starving  souls  to  sink 
their  teeth  eagerly  into  the  raw  fat  and 
gulp  it  dow  n  in  huge  chunks,  smearing 
their  faces  grotesquely  with  the  grease. 

Still  another  of  their  good  natured 
thieving  visitors  spent  fully  three  hours 
squatted  on  a  hatch  cover  with  the 
metal  ring  between  his  legs.  When¬ 
ever  he  thought  himself  unobserved, 
he  bent  and  inserted  as  many  fingers 
as  he  could  in  the  ring  and  tugged  vio¬ 
lently  until  the  sweat  stood  out  on  his 
forehead  and  the  veins  were  near  to 
bursting  in  his  efforts  to  steal  the  ring, 
all  unaw-are  that  it  was  bolted  to  the 
hatch  and  that  he  could  not  pick  it  up 
without  lifting  himself  as  he  sat  there. 
He  would  desist  whenever  any  of  the 
crew  appeared  to  notice  him,  only  to 


snatch  at  the  little  ring  again  and  re¬ 
sume  his  tugging  the  instant  he  felt  he 
was  unobserved,  as  if  he  expected  to 
catch  in  an  unguarded  moment  also  the 
evil  spirit  that  held  the  thing  so 
magically  against  his  pulling. 

Meanwhile  the  work  went  on  with  a 
will.  The  huge  hook  carried  for  that 
purpose  had  been  inserted  in  the  head 
of  the  whale  while  the  rest  of  the  crew 
was  engaged  in  the  rigging  of  the  stage. 
The  neck  had  been  severed,  too,  while 
the  blanket  was  being  started,  so  that 
the  front  third  of  the  mighty  beast  could 
be  cut  away  for  the  preservation  of  the 
case  and  its  valuable  spermaceti  con¬ 
tent.  Then,  with  the  great  head  left 
dangling,  to  he  attended  to  later,  all 
hands  swarmed  to  the  task  of  cutting 
in  that  blanket,  that  the  body  might  be 
turned  over  to  the  natives  as  soon  as 
possible. 

Eager  brown  boys  and  men  leaped  to 
carry  out  every  suggestion  given  by 
men  or  officers.  Never  before  had  Cap¬ 
tain  Chase  seen  a  whale  stripped  so 
swiftly. 

Men  and  hoys  laughed  and  slapped 
at  nearly  nude  girls  who  draped  them¬ 
selves  in  alluring  postures  over  every 
available  bit  of  deck  or  hung  from  the 
futtock  shrouds  to  ogle  down  at  them. 
The  air  resounded  with  giggles,  kisses, 
laughter,  and  jeers. 

"Leave  go  that  little  beauty,  Ike 
Brown,”  roared  a  jocose  voice,  “or  I’ll 
tell  your  Miranda  on  you.” 

"You're  a  fine  one  to  talk,  Mart 
Davol,  with  your  Nancy  to  home  look¬ 
in'  after  your  forty-’leven  brats  while 
you’re  lallygaggin’  with  two-three 
pretty  gals  yourself,”  retorted  the  un¬ 
abashed  Isaac,  returning  instantly  to 
the  pleasure  of  soft  lips  that  were  de¬ 
lightedly  learning  the  joys  of  the  white 
man's  habits. 


81 


% 

WHALES’  WAY 


Blood  and  grease  spread  over  the  ship 
and  the  workers-  The  tropic  sun 
burned  low  and  night  was  upon  them. 
The  mincers  clattered  and  sliced  away 
over  the  hogsheads,  chopping  the 
chunks  of  blubber  into  leaves  held  to¬ 
gether  by  a  bit  of  skin  but  separated 
to  allow  the  heat  to  penetrate  quicker 
and  thus  facilitate  the  cooking  down. 

With  the  coming  of  darkness  the  fires 
were  lighted  in  the  brick  tryworks. 
The  great  kettles  were  filled  with  the 
chopped  fat.  Sputtering  and  hissing, 
the  cooking  turned  from  bloody  white 
daubs  to  tbe  hot  and  swimming  oil  that 
must  be  skimmed  and  bailed  into  the 
cooling  pans  before  being  transferred 
into  casks. 

The  excitement  scarcely  lessened 
with  the  darkness.  The  fires  gave  suffi¬ 
cient  light  to  carry  on  the  task  of  cut¬ 
ting  in.  The  crew  stood  watch  and 
watch,  but  the  natives  remained  in  a 
body.  Couples  slid  into  dark  corners 
for  secrecy.  Girls  crowded  into  cabins 
and  forecastle,  unabashed  by  auy  feel¬ 
ing  of  impropriety.  Success  was  upon 
them.  The  sea  had  yielded  its  treas¬ 
ures.  The  island  was  saved  from  semi- 
starvation  and  the  crew  from  threat¬ 
ened  mutiny. 

Eighty-three  barrels  of  oil  lay  cool¬ 
ing  off  and  shrinking  in  the  casks  when 
the  head  was  at  last  cast  off  and  allowed 
to  sink  in  the  dear  water  of  the  har¬ 
bor.  The  body  had  been  cut  away  long 
before,  after  being  stripped  of  all  its 
blubber  and  much  of  its  tainting  meat, 
the  latter  going  ashore  in  the  native 
canoes  for  a  mighty  feast.  Now,  while 
the  crew  cleaned  ship  and  washed  down, 
the  body  and  head  of  their  victim  lay 
some  four  fathoms  under  them, 
swarmed  over  by  devouring  fishes  and 
swelling  steadily  with  the  gases  of  de¬ 
composition. 


By  the  time  the  supplies  of  fresh 
meat  had  been  devoured,  the  carcass 
lifted,  a  bloated  stench  to  the  nostrils, 
and  drifted  ashore.  Over  it  swarmed 
the  natives,  eagerly  cutting  away  more 
and  more  of  the  over-ripe  flesh  to  eat 
it  greedily  in  spite  of  the  horrible  odor. 

“It’s  time  we  were  out  of  here,” 
grinned  Captain  Chase  to  his  mates, 
who  were  wrinkling  their  noses  at  the 
scent  from  the  sand  spit  where  the 
carcass  lay  in  the  wash.  "Chief  Leli 
has  promised  me  my  pick  of  his  boys, 
since  we  halted  the  smallpox  epidemic 
and  brought  them  food  in  plenty.” 

"Has  he  told  you  about  that  secret 
whale  way?”  asked  Trueman  greedily, 
his  eyes  shining. 

"Not  yet,  but  I’m  hoping  he  will  by 
the  time  we  come  back  next  year.  By 
that  time  he'll  have  had  a  chance  to 
make  sure  that  those  inoculations 
worked.” 

THEY  took  their  anchor  reluctantly, 
spurred  on  only  by  the  fact  that 
every  night  the  flares  of  trying  out 
were  red  on  the  northern  horizon,  and 
finally  got  under  weigh,  decks  clut¬ 
tered  with  live  pigs  in  crates  and  two 
or  three  tons  of  cocoanuts,  breadfruit 
and  plantains.  Water  casks  had  been 
freshly  filled  at  the  nearby  river,  and 
all  was  in  readiness  for  a  long  stay  on 
the  grounds. 

Heading  northward  on  a  long  tack, 
they  sighted  a  whale  boat  under  sail 
and  luffed  up  to  cut  across  its  bow  as 
Chase  made  out  the  huge  IV  in  its  up¬ 
per  corner.  That  letter  was  a  Wing 
marker,  helpful  in  picking  up  the  boats 
hunting  near  the  fleet,  and  the  great  A 
under  it  proclaimed  that  this  was  an 
Albatross  boat. 

But  the  boat  seemed  intent  on  evad¬ 
ing  them.  Instead  of  holding  to  its 


82 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


course  it  veered  sharply.  Captain 
Chase  lifted  a  spyglass  to  study  the 
occupants.  Suddenly  he  ducked  for  his 
cabin  to  come  up  holding  a  rifle-  His 
face  was  stern  as  he  jerked  the  weapon 
to  his  shoulder  and  sent  a  bullet  skip¬ 
ping  across  the  waves  just  ahead  of  the 
hurrying  boat. 

Instantly  there  was  excitement  in 
the  smaller  craft.  Brown  figures  ges¬ 
ticulated  wildly.  The  rifle  barked 
again.  The  second  bullet  splashed 
nearer,  barely  missing  the  long  steer¬ 
ing  oar. 

The  boat  whipped  about  before  he 
could  thrust  in  another  shell  and  slid 
toward  the  bark.  Scowling  brown 
faces  were  lifted  as  the  boat  finally 
luffed  up  under  the  ship's  counter. 

“What's  this?"  demanded  Chase 
sternly,  his  rifle  in  evidence.  “Where’s 
your  officer?"  For  there  was  no  sign 
of  a  white  man  with  the  four  fright¬ 
ened  natives  blinking  at  him. 

“We  sick,”  said  the  sullen  oarsman, 
putting  a  hand  to  his  belly,  his  eyes 
lowering. 

“But  Captain  Kenyon  would  never 
send  sick  men  off  alone  in  a  boat. 
What’s  the  meaning  of  this?" 

“Others  sick,”  waving  at  the  three. 
"Me  not  sick  much.  I  take  home  men. 
Ship  too  busy  killin’  whale.” 

"Come  aboard  here.  Let's  see  what’s 
the  matter  with  them." 

The  face  became  more  furtive,  the 
eyes  even  more  evasive. 

“Bad  sickness.  You  catch." 

He  moved  his  oar  hopefully  but  the 
ringing  command  killed  his  last  linger¬ 
ing  hope. 

“You  come  aboard  here.  I’ll  take  a 
chance  on  catching  whatever  it  is.  It 
looks  to  me  like  homesickness.  I’m 
afraid  you're  not  the  ones  to  die  of  it" 

Dumbfounded,  the  men  stared  at 


him  with  terrified  eyes.  Obediently 
they  came  slowly  up  the  dropped 
ladder. 

Chase  examined  the  first  one  swift¬ 
ly,  feeling  for  pulse  and  fever,  looking 
at  tongue  and  throat. 

“Just  homesickness,”  he  nodded 
grimly,  "as  I  feared.  But  it  might 
have  been  fatal  to  somebody,  eh  ?  Mis¬ 
ter  Trueman,  tow  the  boat  astern,  after 
getting  the  last  man  aboard.  This 
looks  serious." 

The  natives  wilted  at  that  and 
poured  out  what  he  felt  sure  was  but  a 
partial  confession.  Captain  Kenyon 
had  taken  them  against  their  will  as 
they  were  intent  on  their  fishing  for 
starving  relatives  and  neighbors.  He 
had  worked  them  hard,  fed  them  poor¬ 
ly,  abused  them  greatly.  Their  lac¬ 
erated  backs  bore  testimony  to  their 
beatings.  Kenyon  had  lived  up  to  the 
prevailing  custom  among  whaling 
masters  in  their  dealings  with  natives. 

“So  run  away.  Take  boat,"  the  eva¬ 
sive  spokesman  continued. 

Captain  Chase  looked  him  in  the  eye 
with  a  severe  frown.  He  knew  Amos 
Kenyon  too  well  to  believe  that  he  had 
left  his  boats  unguarded  so  that  dis¬ 
gruntled  natives  might  steal  one  and 
escape. 

“Where  is  your  officer  and  the  other 
oarsman?”  he  demanded  sharply. 

One  of  the  renegades  moaned  in  ter¬ 
ror  at  what  he  considered  in  his  sim¬ 
plicity  to  be  a  supernatural  under¬ 
standing  of  their  crime. 

"You  have  killed  them  and  thrown 
them  overboard,”  Chase  accused 
sharply. 

Terrified  denials  flowed  from  trem¬ 
bling  lips,  but  he  knew  that  he  had 
guessed  the  truth.  He  turned  to  True¬ 
man. 

“They’re  deserters  at  least,  probably 


“Cnuplfs  slid  into  dark  comers  lor  secrecy/* 


murderers.  We’ve  got  to  take  them 
back  to  Cap’n  Kenyon.  Put  them  in 
irons/' 

The  native  members  of  the  Petrel 
crew  crowded  around  the  prisoners. 
The  atmosphere  of  joy  that  had  per¬ 
vaded  the  bark  since  the  taking  of  the 
whale  was  suddenly  changed  to  gloom. 
The  white  members  of  the  crew  began 
to  look  upon  their  jolly  and  light¬ 
hearted  comrades  as  potential  killers. 
Under  their  surface  joy  and  gaiety 
lurked  a  viciousness  the  ready  smiles 
concealed. 

The  natives,  on  the  other  hand,  were 
angry  over  the  tales  the  prisoners  told 
of  the  treatment  they  had  received. 
Captain  Kenyon  had  been  adamant  in 
the  face  of  their  entreaties  to  be  left 


on  the  island  to  fish  for  their  sick. 
From  the  moment  of  seizure  he  had 
made  slaves  of  them,  lashed  them 
when  they  did  not  jump  at  command, 
accepted  their  bewilderment  at  strange 
names  and  duties  as  refusal  to  comply, 
and  lashed  all  the  more. 

Captain  Chase  listened  grimly  as  his 
own  natives  explained  the  situation. 
To  them  the  renegades  were  justified 
in  whatever  they  had  done  to  win  to 
freedom,  since  the  initial  fault  lay  with 
their  white  captors.  Although  he  was 
forced  to  admit  to  himself  that  they 
were  right  in  their  claims,  he  dared  not 
set  the  prisoners  free,  as  they  request¬ 
ed,  nor  promise  not  to  return  them  to 
Kenyon.  According  to  the  custom  of 
the  times  he  would  be  derelict  in  his 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


84 

own  duty  if  he  complied.  Much  as  he 
condoned  them  for  striking  for  free¬ 
dom,  he  must  uphold  the  white  man’s 
standards. 

He  knew  all  too  well  what  Kenyon's 
reaction  would  be.  Bred  in  the  harsh 
school  of  a  brutal  whaler  himself,  he 
would  be  even  more  brutal  in  his  treat¬ 
ment  of  the  renegades.  Nothing  but 
death  stared  them  in  the  face  and  that 
death  probably  by  flogging,  unless 
Chase  could  intercede  for  them. 

HE  found  the  Albatross  hove  to  with 
the  stinking  carcasses  of  two 
whales  lashed  to  her  side  as  she  rolled 
and  heaved  in  the  swell. 

“So  you  picked  up  my  boat  ?”  roared 
Captain  Kenyon,  clinging  to  the  fut- 
toek  shrouds  with  a  great  arm.  “Well, 
set  ’em  aboard.  That  second  whale's 
softenin'  already  and  the  first  one  ain't 
cut  in  yet.  We'll  be  lucky  if  we  can 
get  ’em  cleaned  with  all  hands  at  it." 

Then  he  allowed  a  triumphant  grin 
to  spread  across  his  face.  “How  you 
doin',  Cap’n  Chase?  Get  any  hands  at 
Tali  Mahi?" 

“Enough  and  to  spare,  and  a  whale 
while  we  waited.  Eighty-three  bar¬ 
rels." 

Kenyon  guffawed  loudly. 

“Do  you  hear  that,  men?"  he  bel¬ 
lowed.  “They  think  they’re  racin'  with 
us  and  they’ve  eighty-three  barrels  o’ 
oil  aboard.  Do  you  know  what  I’ve 
got,  Cap’n  Chase?  Four  hundred  bar¬ 
rels  topped  off  and  fifty  coolin’,  to  say 
nothin'  o*  these  two  whales  along¬ 
side." 

Chase  could  not  keep  the  hint  of 
scorn  from  his  voice.  “And  a  first  class 
case  of  mutiny  to  deal  with,  if  I’m  not 
mistaken.  I  picked  up  your  boat  as  it 
was  making  for  the  island.  Only  four 
natives  aboard.” 


He  read  the  consternation  in  that 
staring  face.  The  dark  throat  whis¬ 
kers  crushed  against  the  shirt  front  as 
that  jaw  dropped  in  disbelief,  giving 
the  shaven  portion  of  the  face  unusual 
length  and  a  greenish  pallor  under  the 
tan. 

“But  where’s  Mister  Macomber  and 
Nate  Dring?” 

“That's  something  we’ll  have  to  find 
out.  My  guess  is  that  they're  mur¬ 
dered  and  thrown  overboard.” 

Flashy  blades  halted  in  mid  air. 
Laboring  bodies  turned  to  statues. 
And  the  murmur  of  an  angry  under¬ 
tone  floated  over  the  water  from  the 
weary  workers. 

“A  pity  it  warn’t  Kenyon  they  got," 
called  a  shrill  falsetto  above  that  mur¬ 
mur.  It  was  plainly  a  disguised  voice, 
but  it  was  full  of  meaning. 

“Who  said  that?”  roared  Kenyon, 
turning  upon  them. 

Nobody  answered.  Pleading  eyes 
begged  in  vain  for  mercy  as  they  cen¬ 
tered  on  that  stern  face. 

“Speak  up,  or  I’ll  cut  your  rations  in 
half  until  somebody  docs.  I’ll  have 
that  mutinous  rascal  triced  up  and 
flogged,  or  your  empty  guts’ll  stick  to 
your  backbones.  Come  on,  who  said 
it?” 

Faces  blanched  in  the  awed  silence. 
The  dread  of  still  further  abuse  was  so 
strong  that  the  men  aboard  the  idling 
Petrel  could  sense  it  across  the  inter¬ 
vening  stretch  of  water. 

"They’re  already  hard  worked  and 
none  too  well  fed,"  suggested  his  mate 
placatingly. 

“Stow  your  lip  until  it’s  asked  for,” 
snapped  Kenyon.  “Cookie?”  Then, 
as  the  filthy  cook  looked  up  from  where 
he  had  been  waiting  for  some  of  the 
whale  meat  to  cook  for  dinner:  “Half 
rations  for  ’em  until  further  notice." 


WHALES'  WAY 


"But  the  meat’ll  only  go  bad,”  pro¬ 
tested  the  cook,  who  could  understand 
short  rations  if  they  saved  the  company 
money. 

“You  heard  me,  you  insolent  whelp,” 
advancing  on  him  with  swinging  fists. 
"Give  ’em  no  meat  and  half  their  ration 
of  bread.” 

The  quailing  cook  started  to  back 
toward  his  galley,  fearful.  But  his  ef¬ 
forts  to  protect  his  anatomy  by  use  of 
the  pan  were  futile.  Kenyon  seized 
him  by  one  car,  twisted  him  around 
expertly,  and  planted  a  vicious  kick 
on  his  rump,  sending  him  sprawling. 

“That's  the  way  I  handle  ’em,  Cap’n 
Chase,”  he  roared.  “Now  send  them 
boys  aboard  and  I’ll  have  the  truth  out 
of  ’em — as  soon  as  we  get  this  blubber 
aboard  and  to  cookin’.” 

Chase  surveyed  him,  eye  to  eye, 
across  the  heaving  water  as  their  barks 
idled,  aback  and  drifting  apart  as  the 
whales  held  the  Albatross  by  their  drag 
in  the  water  and  the  Petrel  slid  out 
from  the  other’s  lee  to  catch  the  force 
of  the  gentle  wind. 

“I  think  this  is  a  matter  for  a  gam, 
Cap’n  Kenyon,"  he  called. 

“Gam  nothin’!  They’re  my  mine. 
Send  ’em  aboard.  I’ll  put  ’em  to  work 
at  the  cuttin*  in — and  take  care  of  ’em 
afterward,  when  they  won’t  be  so  hard 
to  replace.  Over  with  ’em.” 

“It's  a  gammin’  matter,”  insisted 
Chase  stubbornly,  “Come  aboard  here 
and  let’s  settle  it.” 

"And  leave  these  shirkin’  fools  to 
let  loose  the  whales  and  run  for  it, 
while  I  palaver  over  four  stinkin*  nig¬ 
gers?  Nothin’  o’  the  sort!  Send  ’em 
aboard  and  have  an  end  to  this.” 

Chase  shook  his  head.  “This  is  a 
matter  of  company  policy.  It  calls  for 
a  gam  between  the  pair  of  us.  Your 
officers  can  be  trusted  to  carry  on.” 


85 

“Damn  you,  Burdie  Chase,”  roared 
Kenyon,  forgetting  in  his  anger  the 
courtesy  to  a  skipper  that  discipline 
demanded  in  the  presence  of  their 
men,  “I’ll  break  you  for  this  when  I’m 
in  command  of  the  fleet.  If  you  know 
what’s  good  for  you,  you’ll  send  them 
niggers  aboard.” 

“That’s  just  the  point,”  called  Chase. 
“They’re  not  niggers;  they’re  free 
men.” 

“Drop  my  gig,”  roared  Kenyon.  “I’ll 
show  the  namby  pamby  idiot  who’s 
boss  of  them  dirty  murderers." 

HE  came  storming  up  the  Petrel’s 
jacob’s  ladder  and  onto  the  deck, 
his  face  purple.  Chase  fronted  him 
with  an  equal  show  of  determination, 
his  own  eyes  hard  and  cold. 

“Give  me  my  men,”  gritted  Kenyon. 
Chase  stepped  near  to  him  and 
dropped  his  voice  so  that  none  of  their 
men  could  hear. 

“Listen,”  he  snapped,  "you  might 
scare  those  poor  devils  aboard  your 
ship  with  your  loud  bluster,  but  you’re 
not  scaring  me.  Calm  down  before  the 
men  and  act  like  a  man,  even  if  you 
do  feel  like  a  spoiled  brat.  Come  on 
into  the  cabin  and  let’s  have  this  out.” 

For  a  long  minute  they  stood  there 
breast  to  breast,  eyes  flashing,  tensed 
bodies  ready  for  combat. 

“You  strike  first,  if  you  want  war," 
urged  Chase  under  his  breath.  “I  want 
no  other  excuse  for  pounding  your 
carcass  limp  and  tumbling  it  back  into 
your  boat.  Go  ahead  and  strike  just 
once  and  I  will.” 

Kenyon  measured  the  smaller  fig¬ 
ure,  aware  that  there  was  concealed 
strength  under  those  shirt-sleeved 
arms,  agility  in  that  nimble  figure. 
Luckily  for  his  predicament,  some¬ 
body  cried  at  that  instant,  “Sail  hard 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


86 

aboard.  Looks  like  the  Canvasback ." 

It  was  another  of  the  Wing  vessels, 
named  as  were  all  the  others  for  a 
nautical  bird.  The  tenseness  slack¬ 
ened.  A  crafty  look  came  into  Ken¬ 
yon’s  eyes. 

“It’s  the  Canvasback,  sure  enough,” 
he  called  eagerly.  “Have  Cap’n  Tripp 
aboard  to  settle  this.” 

The  older  brig  luffed  up  and  her 
white  haired  master  catne  aboard  to 
the  swing  of  quick  oars  in  response  to 
the  signal  requesting  his  presence. 
Sprawled  on  the  horse-hair  sofa  built 
into  the  cabin  of  the  Petrel,  he  listened 
with  a  bird-like  cocking  of  his  small 
head  to  first  one  indignant  narrator 
and  then  the  other. 

"This  is  a  very  serious  matter,”  he 
said  at  last,  blinking.  “The  original 
crime’s  bad  enough,  goodness  knows, 
for  murder’s  always  a  nasty  crime.  But 
the  spectacle  of  two  ship-masters 
wrangling  like  children  over  anything 
is  worse  than  the  cause.”  He  paused. 

“You’re  wrong,  Kenyon,"  exploded 
the  judge  suddenly.  Then  he  nodded 
shortly  and  sharply  a  score  of  times 
while  Kenyon  reddened.  “Yes,  you’re 
wrong.  Discraccful  in  a  man  of  your 
standing!  Brawlin'  and  bellowin'  like 
a  mad  bull  1” 

Chase  gasped,  for  he  had  expected 
the  older  captain  to  stick  by  the  older 
idea  of  nautical  justice.  A  slow  grin 
began  to  spread  across  his  face  at  the 
evident  promise  that  there  was  a  warm 
heart  under  Tripp’s  tight  jacket. 

“But  only  in  the  brawling,”  Tripp 
burst  out  again.  “Chase,  you’re  much 
worse.  You  ought  to  know  that  a  skip¬ 
per  has  sole  right  over  his  own  men 
and  gear.  That  boat  belongs  to  the 
Albatross.  So  do  the  men  mannin’  her. 
You’d  no  right  to  refuse  to  set  ’em 
aboard  when  requested.  They're  Ken¬ 


yon's  to  do  with  as  he  sees  fit.” 

“But  don't  you  see,”  protested  Chase, 
“that  we've  got  to  establish  a  company 
policy  about  the  handling  of  these  na¬ 
tives?  Soon  we'll  be  unable  to  ship 
crews  from  among  ’em.  They’re  better 
and  cheaper  than  Yankees  and  we  need 
’em.  Unless  we  earn  their  respect — ” 

“That’s  just  it,  just  it,”  interrupted 
the  nodding  Tripp.  "Respect.  That’s 
what  we  must  have,  respect  and  dis¬ 
cipline.  Unless  we  have  it,”  accusing¬ 
ly,  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  “for 
fellow  captains,  how  can  we  expect 
ignorant  natives  to  have  it?  Punish¬ 
ment  brings  respect.  Fear’s  all  they 
know.  They’ll  bite  the  kind  hand,  but 
don’t  dare  to  snap  at  the  whip  hand.” 

“Yet  they  killed  on  the  Albatross. 
I've  had  no  trouble  here.” 

“Which  proves  what  he’s  sayin’,” 
insisted  Kenyon.  “Macomber,  who  had 
charge  of  that  boat,  was  a  softie.  So 
was  that  fool  Nate  Dring  who  was 
along  with  him  as  boatstcerer.  You 
don’t  find  rats  like  them  murderin'  men 
like  me.” 

"Because  you  don’t  venture  into  the 
boats  with  them  where  they  could  get 
at  you.  They’d  kill  you  in  a  minute  if 
they  got  the  chance.” 

"Gentlemen,  I  have  given  my  de¬ 
cision,”  said  Tripp,  rising  and  start¬ 
ing  up  the  companion.  “I  shall  write 
a  full  account  of  this  to  our  owners — 
including  the  disposition  made  of  the 
men,  Cap'n  Chase.  As  arbitrator  I 
command  you  to  hand  them  over  to 
Cap’n  Kenyon,” 

Chase  threw  up  his  hands  hopeless¬ 
ly.  “You  win  for  the  present,  Ken¬ 
yon,”  he  admitted.  “Once  back  in 
Bedford  I’ll  have  my  say  about  it, 
though.  This  abuse  of  natives  has  got 
to  stop.” 

“What  you  say  when  you  get  back 


WHALES’  WAY 


- 


to  Bedford  isn’t  likely  to  count  very 
much,’’  grinned  Kenyon,  “unless  you 
figure  on  fillin’  your  casks  with  the  soft 
soap  you  bubble  out  of  your  own 
mouth.  Come  on,  Cap’n  Tripp,  let’s 
you  an’  me  get  out  of  here  before  we 
have  softenin’  of  the  gizzard  along 
with  him.” 

There  was  consternation  on  deck 
when  Kenyon  sternly  ordered  the  pris¬ 
oners  into  the  boat  and  started  towing 
the  craft  behind  his  gig  back  toward 
the  Albatross.  One  of  the  men  in  irons 
stood  up  in  the  pitching  boat  and 
seemed  to  be  "making  a  farewell  oration 
to  his  neighbors  on  the  Petrel.  His 
words  were  received  in  stony  silence 
as  the  solemn  faced  islanders  clung  to 
the  rigging. 

Suddenly,  at  a  ringing  cry  of  defi¬ 
ance  from  the  standing  man.  the  others 
leaped  to  their  feet  from  where  they 
had  been  drooped  disconsolately  on  the 
thwarts,  their  hearts  heavier  than  their 
shackles. 

“Sit  down,  you  fools,  or  you’ll  be 
pitched  overboard  to  drown,”  screamed 
Kenyon.  “You  can’t  swim  with  them 
irons  on  you.  I — ” 

His  jeers  seemed  to  stiffen  their  de¬ 
termination.  As  one  they  lifted  their 
heads.  Each  put  a  foot  upon  the  gun¬ 
nel  lifting  clanking  chains.  As  a  high 
wail  lifted  from  them  and  turned  into 
a  mournful  chant,  they  exchanged 
glances,  nodded  in  unison,  and  went 
overboard  in  a  clean  united  dive.  The 
clank  of  their  heavy  chains  echoed, 
their  dark  bodies  were  visible  fighting 
down,  down,  down  through  the  brine 
until  the  blotch  blended  in  wavering 
outlines  with  the  dark  depths  and  was 
lost  to  view. 

Sick  at  what  he  had  witnessed.  Chase 
turned  away.  His  own  native  workers, 
after  echoing  the  dismal  chant  of  the 


87 

suicides,  stared  at  Chase  sullenly. 
Fear  lurked  in  their  pathetic  eyes  as 
they  watched  master  and  mates  mov¬ 
ing  about  the  ship. 

A  FALL  of  suspicion  and  terror 
obsessed  the  ship  as  the  Petrel 
bore  away,  leaving  Kenyon’s  wretches 
to  his  abuse.  Mutiny  threatened  in  the 
form  of  a  race  war,  for  the  whites  in 
the  crew  were  fearful  of  the  murderous 
instinct  that  had  flared  in  their  less 
fortunate  fellows,  even  as  the  native 
workers  were  afraid  that  they,  too, 
were  headed  for  abuse. 

Only  the  sighting  of  whales  late  the 
next  day  brought  an  end  to  the  glooms. 
The  waist  boat  made  fast  and  killed, 
although  the  others  all  drew  or  were 
forced  to  cut.  To  ease  the  tension  and 
insure  good  spirits.  Chase  served  a 
double  round  of  grog. 

The  hot  liquor  gave  the  men  fresh 
spirits  and  a  brighter  outlook.  The 
labor  of  cutting  in  and  trying  out  gave 
little  time  for  brooding.  Everything 
went  along  so  smoothly  and  so  free 
from  unnecessary  brawling  that  the 
timid  natives  took  courage.  Quick  to 
respond  to  kindness  and  quick  to  for¬ 
get  sorrow  and  pain,  they  were  soon 
laughing  and  joking  and  singing  again. 
When  the  boiling  down  was  finished 
five  days  later  and  the  decks  cleaned 
again,  they  strummed  happily  on  their 
native  ukeleles,  fraternizing  once  more 
in  perfect  accord. 

Then  another  shoal  of  whales  arrived 
and  they  put  over  the  boats  with  every 
man  straining  to  be  in  at  the  kill.  In 
the  midst  of  the  excitement.  Chase 
looked  up  to  see  the  Albatross  hard 
aboard,  her  boats  ready  to  drop.  Soon 
the  sea  was  dotted  with  idling  whales, 
blowing  their  spray  in  tiny  founts  and 
jets,  with  laboring  boats  gingerly  ap- 


88 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


proaching  the  lazy  monsters,  or  back¬ 
ing  swiftly  away  after  a  flung  harpoon 
had  made  contact. 

Every  boat  was  far  away  when  a  big 
whale  slowly  lifted  to  the  surface  be¬ 
tween  the  rapidly  closing  barks  and 
snorted  an  exhalation  of  his  pent  up 
breath,  which  mingled  with  the  sea 
water  in  his  blow  hole  to  form  a  foun¬ 
tain  of  spray  over  his  sleek  back. 

Captain  Chase  glanced  at  the  boats, 
towing  seaward  or  maneuvering  toward 
other  monsters.  Then  he  took  another 
look  at  the  spouting  whale  and  at  the 
lone  boat  still  hanging  in  the  davits. 

“Shipkeeper,"  he  bawled,  “take  over 
and  stand  by  to  pick  up  the  kill  far¬ 
thest  to  windward,  drift  down  upon  the 
other  boats  and  pick  them  up  as  they 
tow  to  the  ship.  Man  the  boat,  boys! 
We’re  going  after  that  baby  yonder.” 

Even  as  his  boat  smacked  the  water 
he  saw  Captain  Kenyon  stare  at  them 
and  then  at  the  idling  whale.  In¬ 
stantly  Kenyon  wheeled  and  raced  to 
lower  his  own  boat. 

Since  the  Albatross  was  much  nearer 
the  monster  than  the  Petrel,  a  race  de¬ 
veloped  to  see  who  would  be  first  to 
dart  iron  into  the  whale. 

“Give  it  to  ’em,  boys,”  urged  Chase 
quietly.  “Show  him  what  a  crew  that 
knows  no  lashing  can  do  before  a  bunch 
of  whipped  slaves.  Bend  them  ash 
breezes!  Pull  for  kind  treatment 
aboard  whaling  ships.  Show  him  rnen’re 
better  for  bein’  able  to  say  their  souls 
are  their  own.  Either  Kenyon  or  me 
gets  the  new  flagship  of  the  Wing  fleet 
and  whoever  does  will  demand  his  own 
type  of  discipline  in  the  fleet.  Here’s 
a  chance  to  prove  kindness  is  what  you 
like.” 

The  heavy  boat  with  its  load  of  gear 
fairly  lifted  from  the  water.  Backs 
bent  and  arms  reached  in  perfect  uni¬ 


son.  Onward  they  rushed,  steadily  in¬ 
creasing  their  speed. 

But  Kenyon  was  working  his  men, 
too.  Snarling  a  constant  stream  of 
threats,  he  drove  his  laboring  victims 
viciously.  Both  boats  were  about 
equally  distant  from  the  whale  and 
closing  rapidly,  but  the  Chase  boat 
began  to  gain.  Tense  in  her  stern,  the 
skipper  watched  the  narrowing  distance 
with  expert  eye. 

“Stand  by  to  iron  him,  Leander,"  he 
called. 

Leander’s  short  oar  clattered  into  the 
boat  and  the  harpoon  seemed  to  leap 
into  the  man’s  hands.  Bracing  himself 
swiftly,  he  crouched  in  readiness. 

“Back  water!  Hold  her  or  you’ll 
ram !  Stand  by  to  back  water !  Now, 
Leander,  let  him  have  it !” 

The  iron  sped  true.  It  was  a  long 
cast  but  an  accurate  one.  The  clumsy 
looking  wooden  shaft  stood  upright 
and  quivering  in  the  mighty  mass  for 
an  instant.  Almost  instantly  the  huge 
creature  heaved  forward  in  a  startled 
dive. 

“Fend  off,  you  robber,  we’ve  already 
struck,”  screamed  Chase,  catching  sight 
of  the  Kenyon  boat  with  the  harpooner 
poised  and  ready  to  dart  iron.  "This 
is  our  whale." 

“It’s  still  alive,"  roared  Kenyon. 
“Dart,  you  idiot,  dart  at  him  1  Leave 
the  right  and  wrong  o’  the  matter  to 
me.  Hurl  that  iron!” 

The  hesitating  boatsteerer  dared  de¬ 
lay  no  longer.  That  snarled  command 
seemed  fairly  to  lift  the  weapon  from 
him  in  a  swift  wide  arc  that  ended  in 
the  disappearing  body  of  fhe  great 
whale. 

“Cut,  you  thief;  we’re  still  fast,” 
screamed  Chase.  “A  whale  belongs  to 
the  first  man  to  get  iron  into  him,” 

“You’ll  never  take  him,”  jeered  Ken- 


WHALES’  WAY 


yon.  'Til  show  you  how  it’s  done." 

Chase  was  so  busy  swearing  at  him 
that  he  was  late  in  getting  a  turn  of  line 
around  the  Sampson  post.  Kenyon’s 
boat,  traveling  in  the  whale’s  wake, 
shot  off  ahead. 

"Killer  takes  all,”  called  Kenyon  de¬ 
fiantly,  as  his  boat  picked  up  speed. 

Too  wild  with  anger  to  answer, 
Chase  merely  slowed  the  flight  of  his 
own  line,  and  started  his  own  boat  in 
motion.  Later,  when  the  monster  be¬ 
gan  to  tire,  he  could  take  in  hemp  and 
pull  abreast  of  the  other  boat.  Then  he 
saw  that  the  other  boat  was  slowly 
inching  back  to  bob  and  wallow  and 
veer  and  skip  a  scant  five  fathoms  off 
his  bow. 

At  a  loss  to  understand  just  what 
Kenyon  meant  by  the  maneuver,  he 
watched  closely.  Kenyon  called  some¬ 
thing  that  was  indistinguishable  in  the 
seethe  of  rushing  water,  swanking  im¬ 
pact,  and  the  wind  of  progress. 

Then  Chase  understood.  Kenyon 
was  probing  the  water  as  his  boat 
veered  wildly  back  and  forth  in  re¬ 
sponse  to  his  shouted  directions  to  the 
boatsteerer.  With  a  savage  thrusting 
he  was  searching  water  directly  under 
his  bows  with  that  two-edged  weapon 
that  was  kept  at  razor  sharpness  to 
probe  the  weary  whale's  inwards  at  the 
end  of  the  chase. 

But  the  whale  was  nearly  half  a  mite 
away,  driving  madly.  That  lance  was 
questing  now  for  one  thing  only ! 

There  came  a  thrum  down  the  taut 
line  that  Chase’s  hand  touched.  His 
horrified  eyes  saw  a  single  strand  un¬ 
coiling  from  the  tight  twist,  saw  the 
severed  edge,  cut  by  that  clean  blade. 

"Fend  off  from  my  line,  you  vandal," 
he  screamed,  brandishing  his  own 
lance.  ^ 

Kenyon  favored  him  with  a  grin  of 


89 

defiance  and  probed  again,  as  a  sea 
slapped  over  him.  Chase  thrust  the 
lance  back  into  its  greased  sheath  and 
grabbed  for  another  harpoon.  With 
murder  in  his  eyes,  he  lifted  high  to 
heave  it, 

A  scream  of  terror  burst  from  the 
boatsteerer  ahead  as  he  looked  back. 
But  the  Albatross  boat  had  swept  over 
that  submerged  hemp  again.  Kenyon, 
his  head  and  shoulders  buried  in  the 
brine  that  poured  over  him,  was  thrust¬ 
ing  deep  with  that  keen  blade,  his  legs 
held  by  an  oarsman.  Even  as  Chase 
cleared  the  harpoon  for  the  cast,  the 
taut  line  parted  suddenly,  and  their 
tearing  speed  slowed  at  once  to  drop 
them  rapidly  astern  of  the  other  boat 
and  let  the  arching  weapon  chug  harm¬ 
lessly  into  the  sea.  Instantly  Kenyon 
was  standing  dripping  in  the  bow,  his 
thumb  to  his  nose. 

For  one  long  minute  Burden  Chase 
stood  there,  his  mind  a  seething, 
blinding  red.  Then  he  turned  and  faced 
his  men,  grimly  clambering  aft  to  take 
the  steering  oar  and  motioning  the 
boatsteerer  back  to  the  bow  to  row. 

"Put  us  aboard  the  ship  as  fast  as 
God  A’mighty'll  let  you,”  he  said  in 
a  voice  so  pregnant  with  rage  that  they 
would  not  believe  it  was  their  skipper 
speaking.  "This  ain’t  the  end  by  a  long 
shot.  He  started  something  that  I’m 
goin’  to  finish." 

WITH  sail  lifted  to  aid  the  rowers, 
they  were  soon  hoisting  aboard. 
Barely  glancing  at  the  scattered  boats, 
towing  away  behind  frightened  whales, 
Chase  glanced  aloft. 

"Get  more  sail  on  her,”  he  snapped. 
“Shake  out  them  reefs  in  the  royals.” 

Kenyon  had  all  but  vanished  over 
the  horizon  but  Chase  had  marked  the 
course  of  that  towing  boat.  Ignoring 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


90 

his  own  boats,  one  of  which  was  en¬ 
gaged  in  the  tricky  job  of  lancing  a 
whale  and  trying  to  escape  from  the 
lash  of  its  dying  flurry,  he  headed  grim¬ 
ly  after  Kenyon. 

“Lay  out  the  longest  handled 
spades,”  he  called  savagely,  as  they 
finally  drew  near  and  saw  Kenyon 
drive  that  lance  far  into  the  vitals  of 
the  gasping  whale  and  then  send  his 
boat  surging  backward  to  escape  the 
mad  lunge  of  death,  “Lay  me  aboard 
that  whale  of  ours,  helmsman.  Luff 
her  up  between  boat  and  carcass.” 

“Between  boat  and  carcass,  sir  ?”  asked 
the  abashed  man  at  the  wheel. 

“You  heard  me.  Straight  between 

*****  ** 
e  m. 

"But  there’s  no  goin’  between  ’em, 
sir.  He’s  closin’.” 

“Force  your  way  between  ’em,  if 
you  sink  him.” 

Leaping  into  the  bluff  bow,  he  glow¬ 
ered  down  at  the  nervous  Kenyon, 
whose  smile  had  faded  from  his  face. 

“Fend  off,”  snarled  the  master  in  the 
boat  “You'll  run  me  down.” 

“I  will  if  you  don't  leave  my  whale 
alone  and  put  back  to  your  own  ship, 
you  dirty  pirate.” 

“A  whale  belongs  to  whoever  kills 
it.” 

“This  one’ll  belong  to  whoever  trys 
it  in— and  that’ll  be  me.  Hand  me  that 
spade,  boy.  Unless  you  draw  your 
iron,  Kenyon,  and  head  back  for  your 
ship,  I'll  chop  your  bottom  out  from 
between  your  feet  and  sink  you.” 

“It’s  piracy!” 

“A  fine  word,  cornin’  from  you.  Put 
us  between  ’em,  helmsman!” 

The  bluff  bow  struck  the  inert  car¬ 
cass  with  a  thud  that  shook  the  ship. 
Then  the  bow  edged  slowly  between 
boat  and  carcass. 

“Fend  off  or  I  jab  you,”  snarled 


Chase.  “I'll  show  you  how  to  steal  a 
whale,  if  you  really  want  to  see  it  done. 
Get  out  of  here !” 

“This  is  war,  damn  your  stinkin’ 
hide!” 

“And  you  began  it.  I’ll  give  you  all 
you  can  take.  You  may  think  I’m  a 
lily  livered  thing  because  I  don’t  stand 
for  beating  the  flesh  off  a  man's  back 
because  be  dares  to  say  his  soul’s  bis 
own,  but  you’ll  find  me  the  nastiest 
fighter  you  ever  tackled  if  it  comes  to 
war.” 

“Well,  it  is  war  from  now  on — with¬ 
out  quarter.  Keep  your  stolen  whale, 
but  you’ll  pay  dear  for  it.” 

THE  disgruntled  Kenyon  went  off, 
trembling  with  rage.  Chase  did 
not  relax  until  the  last  of  his  boats 
came  slowly  alongside  towing  their 
catch.  Then,  with  every  man  account¬ 
ed  for  and  his  ship  surrounded  by  dead 
whales  with  hundreds  of  dollars’  worth 
of  oil  waiting  to  be  tried  out,  he  could 
afford  to  chuckle  over  his  final  routing 
of  the  rival. 

“Mighty  nice  of  him  to  kill  our 
whales  for  us,”  he  told  the  skeptical 
Trueman,  as  they  surveyed  the  tons  of 
dead  blubber. 

“But  you’ll  pay  for  it,”  moaned  his 
mate.  “You  can’t  play  around  a  buzz 
saw  without  gettin’  hurt.  He’s  bested 
you  once,  remember.” 

“But  he  ain't  goin’  to  best  me  again,” 
defiantly.  “From  now  on  he’ll  know 
he’s  in  a  race  with  a  man.” 

For  eight  days  they  labored  like 
beavers  at  cutting  in  and  cooking  out 
their  surfeit  of  blubber.  Blood  and 
grease  were  everywhere.  They  tum¬ 
bled  into  their  bunks  like  numb  things 
and  slept  unwashed.  They  ate  with 
slippery  fingers.  They  hacked  and 
chopped  with  hands  so  daubed  that  it 


WHALES'  WAY 


was  a  wonder  they  had  no  more  acci¬ 
dents,  although  cuts  were  plentiful. 

The  whales  began  to  bloat  in  the 
heat  of  the  tropic  sun,  but  hundreds  of 
dollars’  worth  of  oil  could  not  be  aban¬ 
doned  because  of  ripeness  of  scent. 

Finally  the  rotting  condition  halted 
them  from  further  activities  when  the 
great  hooks  tore  free  and  the  swollen 
carcasses  went  veering  off  before  the 
wind  like  half  submerged  rubber  balls. 
Then  there  still  remained  the  ghastly 
task  of  cooking  down  the  blubber  that 
remained,  much  of  which  had  to  be 
shoveled  into  the  kettles,  it  was  so  soft. 

The  Albatross,  busy  at  her  own  try- 
works,  had  drifted  away  from  them. 
Since  there  were  no  more  whales  in 
sight,  Chase  ran  for  the  island  to  give 
his  men  a  little  rest.  That  shoal  of 
whales  had  evidently  been  the  rear 
guard  of  the  migrating  herds,  for  the 
ship  sighted  not  another  blow  as  she 
slid  toward  Tali  Mahi. 

Then,  barely  five  miles  off  the  island, 
they  overtook  the  rear  guard  again.  A 
lone  bull,  snorting  his  spray,  was  idling 
along  in  the  warm  water. 

The  boats  went  over,  the  men  tug¬ 
ging  madly  at  the  oars.  But  the  whale 
seemed  inclined  to  play  tag  with  them. 
He  sounded  leisurely,  remained  under 
fully  fifteen  minutes,  and  then  came  up 
a  half  mile  to  starboard,  instantly  ad¬ 
vertising  his  presence  to  the  searching 
hunters  by  a  jet  of  spray. 

Instantly  the  boats  set  off  in  pursuit, 
oars  flashing.  Burden  Chase  stood  on 
the  deck  of  his  bark  watching  grimly  as 
he  saw  the  whale  headed  eastward  and 
noted  the  patched  topsails  of  the 
Albatross  heaving  above  the  horizon 
ahead.  Kenyon  had  warned  of  war 
and  here  was  a  whale  directly  between 
the  two  vessels. 

As  if  to  precipitate  trouble,  the  mon¬ 


91 

ster  idled  until  the  approaching  ship 
was  almost  upon  him.  Then  he  lay  at 
ease,  apparently  indifferent  to  these 
puny  men.  Ordinarily  a  whale  wmuld 
have  sounded  with  a  rush,  but  he  re¬ 
mained  as  the  boats  drew  nearer,  ap¬ 
parently  stupefied  and  unmindful  of 
the  safety  that  lay  in  a  deep  dive. 

The  Albatross  could  not  head  into  the 
wind  and  lower  her  boats  in  time  to 
beat  the  Petrel  attackers  at  the  har¬ 
pooning.  Under  ordinary  circum¬ 
stances  the  sister  ship  would  have 
stood  away  to  avoid  frightening  the 
creature,  but  Kenyon  grimly  gave  or¬ 
ders  to  hold  to  his  course.  Even  as 
the  leading  boat  drew  near  enough  for 
the  harpooning  order  to  be  given,  the 
ship  tore  down  upon  the  idling  whale. 
Lifting  high  out  of  water,  the  tearing 
bark  was  too  much  for  the  studied 
equanimity  of  that  indifferent  beast. 
As  Kenyon  screamed  to  add  noise  to 
the  fright,  the  whale  lurched  down¬ 
ward,  gone  before  that  harpoon  could 
be  hurled. 

Kenyon’s  mocking  laughter  rang 
over  the  loud  cursing  from  the  boats. 
Delighted,  he  luffed  up  beside  the 
Petrel,  and  the  two  captains  exchanged 
a  searing  flow  of  remarks. 

“And  you  lay  off  stealin'  islanders 
from  Tali  Mahi,”  warned  Chase,  "or 
I'll  make  trouble.  They’re  my 
friends." 

"All  the  more  reason  why  I’ll  steal 
some  more.” 

“I’m  makin’  Chief  Leli  a  present  of 
a  couple  of  Sharps  rifles.  Maybe  you’ll 
respect  them.  I’m  headin'  ashore  now 
to  do  it.” 

"And  I’m  headin’  in  for  men.  I  need 
half  a  dozen  to  replace  the  sick  and 
them  murderers.” 

The  ships  swung  off  on  a  race  toward 
the  island,  which  loomed  like  a  dark 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


92 

blue  cloud  to  the  southward,  Kenyon 
made  a  longer  reach  to  the  eastward 
and  luffed  up  to  lower.  Instantly 
Chase  came  about  and  after  him.  Low¬ 
ering  during  such  a  race  could  mean 
but  one  thing.  The  Albaiross  had 
sighted  blubber. 

The  guess  was  good.  The  lookout 
called  down  excitedly  that  a  single  bull 
whale,  perhaps  the  very  one  they  had 
chased  a  few  hours  before,  was  off  the 
stern  of  the  idling  rival  bark,  with  the 
boats  pulling  after  him. 

CHASE’S  face  was  grim  as  he 
turned  and  called  sharply,  “Bring 
my  rifle  from  the  cabin." 

“What  you  goin’  to  do?”  asked  True¬ 
man  in  a  frightened  voice, 

“Do?  By  God,  I’m  goin’  to  do  just 
what  the  skunk  did  to  my  boats.  He 
declared  war,  so  I'm  goin’  to  keep  on 
firin’  until  he  runs  up  the  white  flag. 
I’ll  show  him  who’s  a  mollycoddle.’* 
Up  the  ratlines  he  went,  lurching 
along  with  but  one  hand  to  jerk  from 
hold  to  hold,  the  other  gripping  the 
heavy  Sharps.  At  the  lubber’s  hole,  he 
thrust  the  rifle  through  to  balance  it  on 
the  flooring  while  he  swung  with  back 
to  the  deck  to  scramble  up  the  platform 
and  over  the  edge.  In  another  instant  he 
was  sighting  the  rifle  toward  that  dis¬ 
tant  scene. 

“Be  careful  you  don’t  kill  nobody,” 
screamed  Trueman.  “You  don’t  want 
murder  on  your  hands.” 

Chase  laughed  nastily  and  fired. 
There  was  no  movement  to  indicate 
that  his  bullet  had  brought  results.  He 
shoved  in  a  brass  jacketed  shell  and 
sighted  again.  Once  more  the  weapon 
kicked  savagely  against  his  shoulder. 

For  an  instant,  after  stooping  quick¬ 
ly  and  blowing  the  smoke  from  the  bar¬ 
rel,  he  thought  that  he  had  missed 


again.  Then  he  saw  the  great  whale 
start  to  glide  along  the  surface,  his 
spray  high  over  his  back. 

But  the  men  in  the  pursuing  boats 
redoubled  their  efforts  and  the  nearest 
harpooner  lifted  to  the  attack.  Chase 
grimly  drew  bead  again  on  that  mov¬ 
ing  leviathan. 

This  time  the  broad  fluke  lashed  vi¬ 
ciously,  and  the  monster  went  hurtling 
down  through  the  water  with  a  mad 
rush  that  told  of  stinging  pain  some¬ 
where  in  his  great  body. 

Amos  Kenyon  had  not  missed  those 
jets  of  smoke  from  the  Petrel.  Grimly 
he  waited  for  his  boats  before  setting 
out  for  the  island.  The  Petrel  had 
scored  again. 

THE  welcome  as  Chase  swung  into 
the  harbor  was  such  as  he  had  al¬ 
ways  known.  The  gay  young  girls 
swarmed  about  them  as  they  went 
through  the  gap  in  the  reef,  their  naked 
young  bodies  sliding  through  the 
waves  with  graceful  strokes  as  their 
happy  voices  greeted  both  brown  and 
white  friends  in  the  crew. 

But  there  was  a  different  story  half 
an  hour  later  when  Chief  Leli,  recov¬ 
ered  now  from  his  illness,  but  stooped 
of  shoulder,  and  blinded  in  one  eye, 
came  aboard  in  regal  dignity  to  hear 
the  story  of  what  had  happened  to  his 
subjects  who  had  been  seized  by  the 
master  of  the  Albatross. 

Chase  did  his  best  to  explain,  telling 
Leli  of  the  two  schools  of  thought  re¬ 
garding  the  treatment  of  crews  and  na¬ 
tives.  Then  he  explained  about  the 
race,  and  reiterated  that  the  winner 
could  dictate  company  policy  in  the 
future. 

Old  Leli  listened  attentively,  with 
his  good  eye  blinking  back  the  tears 
at  the  prospect  of  what  the  future  held 


#Thcn  the  fcatt  waj  rudely  interrupted.” 


for  his  people  unless  Chase  won. 

Then  Chase  came  to  the  point.  "My 
scratching  of  the  arm  has  saved  your 
people.  Not  one  of  those  I  scratched 
has  been  sick,  although  many  who 
would  not  take  my  magic  are  now 
dead.  This,  together  with  the  kind¬ 
ness  I  have  shown  your  people,  13 
enough  to  prove  I  am  your  friend.  I 
bring  you  further  proof  of  that.  These 
two  rifles  are  yours,  that  you  might 
keep  the  other  captains  from  seizing 
your  people.  Some  of  your  men  who 
have  been  away  on  the  ships  before 
can  use  them." 

The  old  chief  was  fluent  with  his 
thanks,  grateful  of  this  contribution 
to  the  almost  hopeless  battle  he  and 


his  people  were  fighting. 

"Now,  I  hope  that  my  friendship  is 
so  established  that  Leli  will  see  fit  to 
aid  me  in  return.” 

Chase  stopped,  and  swallowed  to 
cover  his  nervous  anticipation. 

"Long  ago  a  whaling  master  stopped 
at  this  island  and  learned  where  the 
sperm  whales  go  when  they  leave  here. 
No  other  white  man  knew.  That  man 
has  died.  If  I  knew  that  track  of  the 
whales  I  could  catch  more  than  Cap¬ 
tain  Kenyon,  fill  before  him,  and  beat 
him  home.  Then  our  owner  would 
know  that  my  way  of  treating  you  and 
your  people  is  best." 

He  saw  that  scowl  on  Leli’s  face  and 
his  own  heart  sank.  He  felt  that  his 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


94 

only  chance  of  besting  Amos  Kenyon 
in  the  race  for  oil  lay  in  knowing 
where  the  great  whale  herd  disap¬ 
peared  to  during  those  two  or  three 
months  when  the  other  ships  could 
not  find  them, 

“The  white  brother  has  spoken 
wisely,”  said  Lcli  sadly,  “when  he  has 
said  that  he  has  proved  himself  the 
friend  of  my  people.  I  know  too  that 
he  is  the  enemy  of  this  man  who  hunts 
in  a  ship  like  his.  But  the  heart  of 
Leli  is  sad.  Leli  can  not  tell  you  what 
you  want. 

“The  way  of  the  whales  is  not  known 
to  us.  Years  ago  another  tribe,  called 
the  Whale  people,  came  here  at  times 
from  distant  islands  to  meet  the 
whales.  We  never  knew  where  their 
home  was.  But  they  have  not  come 
for  years  now.  I  only  know  that  they 
came  from  the  south  in  swift  sailing 
canoes,  and  returned  to  the  southward 
in  them.” 

Burden  Chase  had  listened  with 
searching  eyes,  probing  that  pocked 
old  face  for  the  truth.  Could  the  old 
man  be  lying,  trying  to  preserve  a 
secret  his  people  had  known?  Was 
Kenyon  right  in  his  claim  that  one 
must  treat  these  natives  with  cruelty 
to  get  the  most  out  of  them? 

He  glowered  fiercely  seaward,  where 
the  Albatross  was  working  in  against  a 
soft  off-shore  breeze.  If  Kenyon  had 
believed  in  the  whale  way,  Chase  knew 
that  he  would  not  have  hesitated  to 
torture  the  old  chief  to  come  at  the 
secret.  Perhaps  it  was  the  wise  thing 
to  do. 

While  he  hesitated,  the  islanders 
brought  him  gifts  to  show  their  appre¬ 
ciation  of  his  kindness.  Roast  pigs 
were  offered  up  in  a  banquet  for  his 
entire  crew.  Fruits  galore  were 
heaped  on  the  decks. 


Not  a  man  aboard  but  received  a 
gift  of  some  kind  from  the  native  who 
adopted  him  as  brother  and  followed 
him  about  like  a  dog.  Old  Leli,  the 
tears  still  streaming  from  his  eye,  pre¬ 
sented  Chase  with  two  lustrous  pearls 
of  matchless  beauty  that  his  people  had 
found  in  their  fishing  and  he  had  treas¬ 
ured  as  royal  gems. 

But  no  information  of  the  whale 
track  was  forthcoming  and  Chase  was 
reluctantly  forced  to  admit  to  himself 
that  the  old  man  knew  nothing  of  it. 

Then  the  feast  was  rudely  interrupt¬ 
ed  by  the  sharp  bark  of  rifles  from  the 
becalmed  Albatross, 

Captain  Chase  leaped  to  his  feet  and 
stared  seaward.  A  boat,  loaded  to  the 
gunnels  with  laboring  men,  was  pull¬ 
ing  in  through  the  reef,  while  rifles 
were  barking  from  the  slightly  rolling 
ship. 

Instantly  he  jumped  to  the  conclu¬ 
sion  that  the  angry  Kenyon  was  at¬ 
tacking. 

“Back  to  the  ship,”  he  roared  to  his 
men.  “It  looks  as  if  we’ve  got  to 
fight.” 

Down  they  rushed,  tumbling  into 
beached  boats,  splashing  madly  off  to 
clamber  up  the  bluff  sides  of  the  bark. 
But  the  oncoming  boat  veered  away 
just  inside  the  reef  and  went  sliding 
ashore  under  the  shadow  of  some 
overhanging  cocoanut  palms. 

Captain  Chase  scratched  his  head. 
Then  he  turned  grimly  to  Trueman. 

“Keep  everybody  aboard,”  he  said  in 
a  low  voice.  “Issue  arms.  Double  the 
anchor  watch  and  let  all  others  get  as 
much  sleep  and  rest  as  they  can.  This 
looks  like  a  flank  attack  to  me.  I’m 
going  ashore  to  warn  Leli.  There's  no 
knowing  what  treachery  Kenyon  is  up 
to  now,  but  we’ve  got  to  be  on  the 
alert  for  anything.” 


WHALES*  WAY 


95 


HE  went  swiftly  back  to  the  shore 
in  his  whale  boat,  each  man  of  his 
crew  carrying  a  pistol  or  rifle  beside 
him  in  readiness  to  repel  a  rush  from 
that  landing  party  from  the  other  ship. 
Thankful  that  the  natives  were  in  their 
harbor  homes,  he  went  quickly  to  the 
old  chief. 

Hargi  had  been  dispatched  with  one 
of  the  rifles  to  the  point  to  intercept  the 
landing  party  and  demand  their  inten¬ 
tions.  He  returned,  grinning  broadly, 
to  gasp  out  a  relieved  message. 

The  boat  had  contained  the  remain¬ 
ing  native  fishermen  that  Kenyon  had 
shanghaied,  together  with  four  whites 
who  were  weary  of  the  abuse  they  had 
received.  Sent  to  tow  the  Albatross 
to  harbor,  they  had  thrown  the  officer 
in  charge  overboard,  unshipped  the 
cable,  and  made  for  shore,  with  Ken¬ 
yon  shooting  in  a  vain  attempt  to  bring 
them  back.  One  of  the  native  boys 
had  been  wounded  in  the  upper  arm 
by  a  bullet  and  one  of  the  four  whites 
had  been  killed. 

Chase  was  skeptical  at  first,  still 
thinking  it  a  trick.  But  when  Hargi 
assured  him  that  the  renegades  carried 
no  arms,  he  began  to  realize  that  the 
poor  devils  had  fled  in  an  effort  to  es¬ 
cape  further  abuse. 

Seeing  another  boat  warping  the 
Albatross  in  through  the  surf,  he  went 
back  aboard  his  bark,  after  repeating 
his  warning  to  Leli  to  be  watchful  of 
the  three  whiles  and  to  send  them  to 
safe  hiding  in  the  interior. 

Barely  had  he  stepped  to  the  deck 
than  he  heard  the  anchor  chain  rat¬ 
tling  out  from  his  rival’s  bow,  and  saw 
Kenyon  taking  his  place  in  the  stern 
of  the  boat,  which  had  swung  back  to 
the  ship  after  towing  inside  the  reef. 

“Cap’n  Chase,”  he  called,  his  men 
idling  on  their  oars  near  the  Petrel. 


*Ttn  willin*  to  bury  the  hatchet,  if  you 
are.  We're  gettin*  nowhere  fightin* 
each  other.” 

“Suits  me.  Want  to  come  aboard 
and  talk  it  over?” 

“Yes,  and  I  want  your  help  in  round¬ 
ing  up  them  deserters.” 

Chase  waited  until  his  rival  was 
looking  at  him  over  a  glass  of  rum 
before  he  answered.  Then  he  returned 
that  questioning  stare  with  defiance. 

“Cap’n  Kenyon,”  he  said  softly, 
"you’re  gettin’  just  what  I  knew  was 
cornin’  to  you.  I  warned  you  to  treat 
your  men  as  they  should  be  treated." 

Kenyon's  face  purpled  under  the 
rush  of  angry  blood. 

“Well,”  he  snarled,  “I  didn’t  come 
here  for  a  lecture.  Do  you  help  round 
up  my  men,  or  don’t  you?” 

“Naturally,  I  don't.  I’m  not  going 
to  be  an  accessory  to  further  murder 
hatching.” 

“Why,  you  sanctimonious  hypo¬ 
crite,”  bellowed  Kenyon.  “A  lot  you 
care  about  the  stinkin’  niggers  and 
their  rights!  You’re  refusin’  to  help 
me  so  I’ll  be  short  handed  and  you  can 
fill  quicker’n  I  can.  You  can’t  pull  the 
wool  over  my  eyes,  if  you  can  over  the 
old  chief’s.” 

Chase  answered  with  silence.  Ken¬ 
yon’s  great  fist  plumped  down  on  the 
table. 

“But  you'll  not  beat  me,  Mister 
Smarty,  with  all  your  native-lovin’. 
Them  whales  are  gone  for  a  couple  of 
months,  if  that  fool  theory  of  Wing’s  is 
right.  Well,  my  hearty,  before  them 
two  months  are  up  I’ll  be  off  New  Zea¬ 
land  with  a  full  crew,  and  you  can  bet 
on  that.  Let  the  fools  desert  if  they 
want  to.  I’ll  leave  ’em  here  to  the  can¬ 
nibals  on  the  other  side  of  the  island. 
We’ll  have  their  lays  to  split  among 
the  rest  of  us.  If  any  of  ’em  survive, 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


96 

they’ll  be  crawlin’  down  and  beggin*  to 
be  taken  aboard  by  the  time  I'm  back 
next  year.” 

“I’m  warning  you,”  said  Chase. 
“The  natives  are  armed  with  rifles  and 
will  shoot  to  kill  to  prevent  further 
shanghaiing  of  the  islanders.” 

“Wait  until  I  tell  Gideon  Wing  how 
you  help  out  a  fellow  skipper  of  his 
line,”  yelped  Kenyon. 

“Or  until  I  tell  him  how  you  ironed 
a  whale  after  I  was  fast  and  then  de¬ 
liberately  sailed  into  one  we  were  ap¬ 
proaching  and  scared  him  away  before 
the  boats  could  dart.” 

“And  how  you  deliberately  fired 
with  a  rifle  to  scare  one  from  under 
our  noses  when  you  couldn’t  do  the 
same.” 

“Gentlemen,”  interposed  Trueman, 
“wouldn’t  it  be  wiser  to  postpone  your 
squabbles  until  you're  back  in  Bed¬ 
ford  ?" 

Kenyon  laughed  harshly.  “A  good 
idea  that.  Chase.  And  don’t  forget  that 
the  first  man  in  gets  Wing’s  ear. 
Thank  God,  Gideon  Wing  uses  an  hon¬ 
est  dollar  standard  by  which  to  judge 
success.  He  won’t  care  a  snap  of  his 
old  fingers  how  right  you  are  nor  how 
wrong  I  be.  The  new  ship  and  the 
command  of  the  fleet  goes  to  whoever 
is  in  first  with  full  casks.  You  don’t 
have  to  make  two  guesses  to  know 
that’s  me,  even  if  you  have  tried  to 
back  my  deserters  and  stir  up  trouble 
for  me.  I’ll  beat  you  if  I  have  to  flay  the 
flesh  off  the  backbones  of  every  man 
aboard  my  ship  and  kill  half  the  island 
niggers  into  the  bargain.” 

He  stamped  angrily  on  deck,  went 
back  to  his  ship,  and  had  his  men 
heave  up  the  anchor.  Without  waiting 
to  take  fresh  water  or  fruit,  he  went 
lurching  southward  through  the  early 
morning  grey. 


Captain  Chase  followed  soon  after¬ 
ward,  after  refusing  to  take  the  de¬ 
serters  from  the  Albatross  with  him. 

“I’ll  stop  and  pick  you  up  on  the  run 
home,”  he  promised  them,  “but  I  can’t 
manage  it  now  without  getting  myself 
into  more  trouble  with  the  owner.  I’ve 
score  enough  to  settle  as  it  is  when 
Kenyon  gets  home.  Unless  I  can  beat 
him  to  Bedford,  I’m  afraid  my  days  in 
Wing  vessels  are  over  when  I  dock  at 
the  end  of  this  trip.” 

THE  next  two  months  found  the 
Petrel  cruising  needlessly  among 
the  islands  to  the  southward.  Twice 
they  sighted  the  Albatross  on  the  hori¬ 
zon,  but  each  time  Chase  set  a  new 
course  when  her  rigging  bore  testi¬ 
mony  to  her  identity.  * 

Then  the  whales  appeared  around 
them  again  and  they  renewed  their 
grim  chase.  Fortune  seemed  to  smile 
after  continued  adversity.  They  killed 
far  more  than  the  customary  percent¬ 
age  that  they  found,  rarely  failing  to 
sink  iron  once  they  lowered,  and  rarely 
drawing  or  being  forced  to  cut,  once 
they  were  fast. 

Everything  went  smoothly  aboard 
too.  The  men  labored  like  beavers. 

On  they  swept  through  the  long 
months,  skirting  Antarctic  ice,  sweep¬ 
ing  slowly  up  the  forbidding  coast  of 
South  America,  stopping  at  Galapagos 
for  mail.  Then  on  again  toward  the 
Bering  Sea. 

It  was  a  happy  Captain  Chase  who 
led  them  northward  from  the  barren 
little  island  where  they  had  touched 
for  mail.  There,  under  the  huge  shell 
that  served  as  a  post  office,  he  had 
found  a  letter  from  Priscilla  Wing  that 
made  him  more  determined  than  ever 
to  win  the  race.  In  it  she  had  over¬ 
come  her  last  maidenly  reserve  and 


WHALES*  WAY 


97 


poured  out  her  earnest  supplications 
for  him  to  beat  Amos  Kenyon  home. 

They  cut  in  blubber  in  the  frigid 
waters  of  the  Aleutians,  took  more  off 
Japan.  Men  worked  until  it  seemed 
that  human  flesh  could  endure  no  more. 
They  labored  like  mad  at  the  oars  to 
approach  fleeing  whales  or  to  tow  dead 
monsters  back  to  the  ship.  They  drove 
night  and  day  to  cut  up  their  catch  in 
record  time,  convert  it  into  oil. 

Song  leaped  to  their  lips.  The  prom¬ 
ise  of  a  rich  lay  and  a  quick  run  home 
was  already  sagging  on  the  invisible 
tow-rope  that  led  far  back  across  the 
heaving  miles  to  New  Bedford. 

Back  toward  Tali  Mahi  they 
swashed  and  pitched.  Heavier  in  the 
water  now,  their  faces  even  darker 
with  an  ever  increasing  tan,  they 
looked  almost  like  blood  brothers  of 
the  cheerful  island  boys. 

It  became  evident  to  them  all  that 
an  unusually  good  catch  near  the  end 
of  that  long  trek  might  send  them 
home  before  the  lay-off  that  the  dis¬ 
appearance  of  the  whales  would  neces¬ 
sitate.  In  their  enthusiasm  and  good 
fortune  in  meeting  whales,  they  had 
nearly  filled  in  record  time. 

Confident  that  they  had  long  ago 
passed  the  lead  that  the  Albatross  had 
obtained  by  her  early  start,  they  wal¬ 
lowed  toward  the  island. 

Then  their  hearts  sank.  Riding  still 
deeper  in  the  gentle  sea,  the  Albatross, 
her  bottom  fouled  with  weed  from  her 
stay  in  salt  waters,  her  canvas  showing 
the  result  of  exposure  to  wind  and  sun 
and  rain,  heaved  slowly  into  view  for 
the  first  time  in  that  long  sweep  they 
had  made  around  the  mighty  ocean. 

"One  more  whale  of  any  size  and  1*11 
fill,”  called  Kenyon  exultantly.  “And 
I’ll  manage  that  any  day  now.  Sorry 
you  won't  be  home  in  time  to  dance  at 


my  weddin*.  I’ve  made  it  in  record 
time,  and  Wing’ll  be  proud  of  me.  You 
ain’t  doin’  so  bad  yourself,”  patroniz¬ 
ingly. 

“1  need  only  three  more  good  ones," 
called  Chase.  “With  luck  I’ll  beat  you 
yet.” 

Kenyon’s  only  answer  was  a  scorn¬ 
ful  laugh.  For  whales  were  growing 
scarce  and  skittish.  Over-hunting  dur¬ 
ing  the  last  few  weeks  had  made  them 
wary.  They  slid  away  at  the  approach 
of  a  boat,  seemed  aware  of  their  danger 
at  the  hands  of  pursuers. 

BOTH  ships  stopped  at  Tali  Mahi 
for  water  and  fruit.  Lcli  allowed 
Kenyon’s  men  to  go  ashore  and  gather 
what  they  wanted,  but  would  not  allow 
any  of  his  people  to  come  in  contact 
with  them.  On  the  other  hand  he 
heaped  the  Petrel  with  gifts  again  and 
once  more  proclaimed  his  sorrow  at  be¬ 
ing  unable  to  give  any  inkling  of  the 
whale  track. 

Then  the  appearance  of  a  single 
whale  off  shore  sent  them  all  scamper¬ 
ing  to  sea  in  pursuit.  As  they  were 
clearing  the  harbor,  Chase  was  slight¬ 
ly  behind  the  hurrying  Albatross.  Sud¬ 
denly  he  saw  a  canoe  putting  out  from 
the  point,  the  occupants  frantically 
waving  as  native  paddlers  dug  madly. 

He  saw  Kenyon  jeeringly  wave  them 
toward  the  following  ship  and  grimly 
determined  not  to  delay  to  pick  them 
up.  Then  Chase  saw  their  faces  and 
thought  of  thetr  families  waiting  in 
vain  for  them  back  home.  Hating 
himself  for  giving  in,  he  luffed  up  and 
took  the  poor  wretches  aboard,  to  re¬ 
new  the  pursuit  of  the  whale  and  the 
Albatross,  both  sliding  southward. 

The  whale  loitered  and  the  leading 
ship  put  out  her  boats.  Chase’s  heart 
sank.  That  whale  would  certainly  fill 


98 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


the  few  remaining  casks  aboard  the 
rival  ship.  He  was  licked  if  Kenyon 
killed  that  whale. 

“Stand  by  and  we’ll  leave  you  what 
we  can’t  use,”  called  his  gloating  rival, 
as  the  Petrel  surged  slowly  past.  “He’ll 
more  than  fill  us,  and  I  can  afford  to  be 
generous.” 

“Don't  give  anything  away  until 
you’ve  caught  it,"  snapped  Chase. 

On  and  on  went  the  chase.  Hour 
after  hour  the  big  whale  kept  evading 
those  following  boats. 

Then  he  sounded  at  last,  still  head¬ 
ing  southward. 

Chase  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  Ken¬ 
yon  must  stand  by  to  pick  up  his  boats. 
The  Petrel  was  well  in  the  lead.  If  that 
whale  showed  again  he  should  get  it. 

The  whale  was  not  gone.  The  next 
morning  the  lookouts  of  both  vessels 
sighted  him  lolling  along  ahead  of 
them.  But  now  he  was  joined  by  an¬ 
other  huge  monster,  and  Chase  grew 
grim  as  he  watched  the  pair  cavorting 
southward.  Their  speed  was  slow 
enough  to  allow  of  capture  with  any 
luck.  But  the  Albatross  should  be  able 
to  kill  at  least  one  of  those  two,  and 
either  one  would  suffice  to  fill  those 
few  empty  casks. 

On  the  other  hand,  even  if  Chase 
should  manage  to  take  both  of  them,  he 
could  scarcely  hope  to  fill.  It  looked 
like  a  sure  win  for  Kenyon  unless  the 
Petrel  could  frighten  those  monsters 
away  before  the  other  skipper  could 
get  one  of  them.  Then  the  pair  sound¬ 
ed  once  more. 

Grimly  determined  to  do  his  best, 
Chase  waited  for  those  twin  jets  of 
spray  to  announce  that  the  whales  were 
up  again.  His  rifle  was  in  his  hands, 
ready  to  sting  them  into  flight. 

Suddenly  the  spyglass  at  Chase’s 
side  lifted  to  study  that  faint  showing 


just  astern  of  the  Albatross.  His  heart 
leaped  with  eagerness  as  he  saw  that 
wavering  spray  lift  far  off  on  the  hori¬ 
zon  and  sink  again  after  a  mighty  ex¬ 
halation.  He  understood  at  once.  Ken¬ 
yon  had  overrun  the  whales  in  his  ea¬ 
gerness  to  be  in  at  the  kill. 

Hope  ran  high  in  the  few  minutes 
that  followed  as  they  slid  swiftly  east¬ 
ward.  Every  man  stood  ready  to  tum¬ 
ble  into  the  boats  and  set  off  in  pursuit 
of  what  might  prove  to  he  enough  oil 
to  fill  and  send  them  home  months  be¬ 
fore  they  could  otherwise  anticipate. 

Then  a  sharp  cry  of  disappointment 
rang  across  the  sea  as  the  eager  watch¬ 
ers  determined  that  this  was  no  pair 
of  whales,  but  an  outrigger  canoe  with 
a  hollowed  log  for  hull  and  a  smaller 
log  for  the  buoyant  outer  float  that  was 
designed  to  prevent  capsizing. 

Cold  with  disappointment,  Captain 
Chase  gave  the  order  to  turn  south¬ 
ward,  where  the  Albatross  was  again  in 
pursuit  of  the  whales,  once  more  vis¬ 
ible.  But  that  faint  cry  of  disappoint¬ 
ment  had  reached  the  canoe.  A  feeble 
frame,  ghastly  gaunt  with  emaciation, 
reared  and  flapped  a  feeble  signal  with 
a  diaphanous  bit  of  cloth. 

Instantly  they  realized  why  they  had 
been  fooled.  That  waving  cloth  had 
been  the  despairing  signal  of  the  wretch 
to  halt  the  unrelenting  Kenyon,  who 
had  sped  ruthlessly  by,  ignoring  the 
oldest  law  of  the  sea  by  refusing  aid  to 
a  signal  of  distress. 

For  five  long  minutes  Chase  held 
grimly  to  that  southern  course,  ignor¬ 
ing  the  feeble  wave  and  the  frantic  ges¬ 
turing. 

“We  can  put  back  and  pick  him  up 
after  we  get  the  whales,”  he  declared 
with  finality. 

Then  he  caught  the  helmsman’s  eye 
and  his  determination  left  him. 


“Then  he  caw  the  ihape  of  that  bluish  block  of  tattooing,” 


“Stand  by  to  pick  up  the  canoe,”  he 
called  savagely. 

THERE  was  but  the  one  poor  wretch 
alive,  a  ghastly  skeleton  among 
equally  emaciated  corpses.  Too  feeble 
to  make  a  rope  fast  around  his  scrawny 
body,  he  had  to  be  aided  by  an  islander 
who  knifed  into  the  water  readily 
enough  and  knotted  the  rope  for  him. 

A  mere  chattering  death's  head  with 
a  mop  of  hair  fallen  over  his  eyes,  with 
his  blackened  tongue  protruding  from 
cracked  and  swollen  lips,  lie  was  car¬ 
ried  forward  by  the  pitying  islanders 
and  laid  on  a  bag  of  hay  from  one  of 
the  bunks. 

Then  all  attention  except  that  of  two 
islanders,  who  remained  to  dole  water 
in  mere  drops  to  that  parched  mouth, 


was  centered  on  the  distant  Albatross 
and  an  effort  to  overtake  her. 

With  hope  alternately  ebbing  and 
flowing,  they  held  southward  all  that 
day. 

Then,  just  at  nightfall,  the  whales 
slowed  and  the  iron  was  darted  by  two 
of  the  pursuing  Albatross  boats  before 
the  Petrel  could  come  close  enough  to 
lower. 

“After  'em,”  called  Chase,  his  face 
grim.  “Try  to  maneuver  to  get  be¬ 
tween  boat  and  whale,  so  they'll  have 
to  cut  to  keep  from  crashin’  into  us. 
We’ve  got  to  stop  ’em  somehow,  or 
they’ll  beat  us  to  Bedford.  We  can 
claim  it  was  an  accident  and  they 
fouled  us.” 

The  whale  was  towing  eastward 
across  their  bows  and  the  maneuver 


100 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


seemed  feasible.  They  slid  forward, 
even  as  the  boats  started  skipping  and 
pounding  off  in  mad  pursuit  as  their 
lines  tightened. 

A  sudden  squall  sent  the  old  bark 
surging  forward  with  a  rush.  The 
whale  veered,  as  if  to  help.  The  two 
boats  tore  madly  at  the  looming  hull 
that  barred  their  way. 

"Out  of  our  course,”  screamed  des¬ 
perate  mates.  "Seaway,  damn  you! 
You'll  make  us  cut !” 

It  was  all  over  in  a  bare  minute,  once 
they  had  crossed  that  towline.  The 
leading  boat,  bearing  straight  at  them, 
came  so  close  that  smashing  contact 
was  inevitable  unless  the  line  parted. 
A  glowering  face  suddenly  lowered  at 
the  bow.  and  steel  flashed  at  the  hemp. 
In  another  instant  the  mad  speed  slack¬ 
ened  and  the  boat  sheered  along  the 
side  of  the  bark  with  her  thin  planking 
unharmed  but  her  occupants  cursing 
fluently  as  they  rode  out  the  following 
wave  and  veered  astern. 

But  the  other  boatsteerer  had  seen 
the  fate  of  his  comrades  and  thrown 
his  full  weight  on  the  steering  oar.  The 
tiny  cockleshell  veered  madly  off  at  a 
wide  angle,  one  gunnel  dipping  deep, 
the  other  lifting  high,  and  it  looked 
like  a  certain  spill.  Then  the  danger 
was  passed,  the  boat  shot  clear  of  the 
Petrel’s  stern,  righted,  and  sped  on  in 
tow  of  the  whale,  while  a  cry  of  ex¬ 
ultant  defiance  wafted  back  to  the 
discouraged  Chase. 

When  the  other  bark  came  down  in 
pursuit  of  the  towing  boat  and  de¬ 
layed  to  pick  up  the  one  that  had  been 
forced  to  cut,  Kenyon  was  grinning 
affably  from  his  quarterdeck. 

“You  put  up  a  fight  anyhow,  Cap'll 
Chaser  he  called.  “Now  I  can  fill 
and  be  off.  I'll  tell  Wing  that  you  tried 
— but  lost  to  a  better  man.” 


Chase  lifted  a  face  lined  with  the 
struggles  of  the  last  two  years.  Anxie¬ 
ties  had  aged  him.  He  knew  at  last 
that  he  was  beaten, 

"Tell  him  I’ll  admit  one  thing,  Cap’n 
Kenyon.  You  filled  before  me.  It  looks 
now  as  if  you'd  sure  b  tat  me  home.'* 
Late  that  night  the  flares  of  trying 
out  on  the  horizon  convinced  him  that 
he  had  lost.  There  was  nothing  to  do 
now  but  loiter  about  until  the  whales 
reappeared. 

Then  a  faint  hope  sprang  up  within 
him.  Perhaps,  if  he  careened  at  Tali 
Mahi  and  headed  westward  across  the 
Indian  Ocean  and  around  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope,  he  might  find  a  stray  sperm 
whale  or  two  there  or  in  the  Atlantic. 

It  was  a  futile  hope,  he  knew,  yet  he 
grasped  at  it.  Instantly  he  gave  orders 
to  come  about  and  head  for  the  island. 

STILL  all  but  despairing,  they  drew 
into  the  island  harbor,  Hargi  and 
Leli  conferred  about  helping  unship 
the  cargo,  beaching  the  ship,  and  ca¬ 
reening  her  to  scrape  her  fouled  bottom 
to  insure  a  faster  passage  home. 

“No  need,”  grunted  Hargi.  “Take 
too  long.” 

“But  I'll  more  than  make  up  the  time 
by  faster  sailin',’'  pleaded  Chase. 

“We  do  another  way,”  Hargi  assured 
him.  “Haul  ship  into  river.  Fresh 
water  kill  salt  water  life.  Then  we 
dive  and  scrape.  You  see.  Save  many 
days.” 

But  the  joy  over  this  shortening  of 
the  required  time  was  outdone  by  a 
sudden  shouting  from  the  hut  where 
the  poor  wretch  they  had  saved  was 
lying.  From  the  doorway  burst  the 
two  boys  Chase  had  assigned  to  care 
for  him,  their  arms  supporting  the  fee¬ 
ble  frame,  their  hands  pawing  back  the 
heavy  tangle  of  hair  from  his  forehead. 


WHALES’  WAY 


101 


For  a  full  minute  the  significance  of 
their  excited  jabbering  was  lost  on 
Chase.  Then  he  saw  the  shape  of  that 
bluish  block  of  tattooing  on  the  high 
forehead  that  the  lifted  hair  revealed. 
Running  from  temple  to  temple,  plain¬ 
ly  etched  in  the  brown  skin,  was  a  clear 
outline  of  a  sperm  whale. 

"A  Whale  Man  I”  cackled  Hargi  and 
Leli.  “A  Whale  Man!  One  of  those 
who  know  the  whale  track.** 

BURDEN  CHASE  was  staring 
numbly.  Suddenly  the  hearty 
smash  of  Abel  Trueman’s  hand  on  his 
back  startled  him. 

’‘There’s  hope  yet,  Cap’n  Chase,”  he 
was  bellowing.  “Thar’s  still  hope  of 
fillin’,  in  time  to  beat  Kenyon  home,  if 
this  poor  devil  knows  where  the  whales 
go  and’ll  tell  us.  Kenyon  won’t  push 
hard  for  home,  thinkin’  we’re  hopeless¬ 
ly  licked.  If  we  crack  on,  we  have  a 
chance  yet.” 

The  enthusiasm  spread  to  everybody 
in  getting  the  Petrel  ready  for  sea. 
While  divers  went  under  her  hull  to 
scrape  off  the  dead  growth,  eager  hands 
set  up  slack  stays  and  ran  aloft  fresh 
canvas.  Laughing  natives  helped  in  a 
frantic  restoring  of  the  great  casks,  al¬ 
ready  filled,  and  in  piling  generous  sup¬ 
plies  of  firewood  and  provisions  aboard. 

Meanwhile  the  Whale  Man  was 
nursed  carefully  back  to  health.  He 
readily  consented  to  repay  the  white 
captain  for  saving  his  life  by  showing 
him  the  whale  track  and  was  carefully 
bundled  aboard  when  the  ship  was 
finally  ready. 

Instead  of  heading  southward,  the 
feeble  Whale  Man  insisted  that  they 
should  stand  due  west.  He  explained 
laboriously  through  an  interpreter  that 
a  cold  current  set  in  far  south  of  Tali 
Mahi  and  ran  west  for  fully  a  thousand 


miles.  The  cruising  whales,  striking 
this  cool  water  after  lazing  in  the  tropic 
warmth,  were  invigorated.  They  dashed 
madly  westward,  far  from  where  the 
ships  search  to  the  south,  to  find  shel¬ 
ter  in  a  group  of  islands  as  yet  unvis¬ 
ited  by  whaling  ships,  except  Captain 
Avery’s.  Unpursued  there,  they  loi¬ 
tered  for  sonic  two  months  before  go¬ 
ing  on  to  New  Zealand  waters. 

The  Petrel  confirmed  the  statement  a 
few  days  later,  after  bowling  along  un¬ 
der  a  steady  strong  wind.  They  had 
barely  sighted  the  first  of  the  string  of 
islands  when  they  saw  rising  spouts  of 
many  whales  on  the  horizon. 

Again  the  boats  were  lowered. 
Whales  were  struck  and  killed.  Once 
more  lights  flared  and  the  kettles 
boiled. 

The  relatives  and  friends  of  the  guide 
came  paddling  off  in  their  canoes  to 
aid  willingly  in  the  cutting  in  and  try¬ 
ing  out  and  stowing  down.  In  record 
time  the  casks  were  filled  and  stowed. 
Then  the  bark  headed  off  toward  the 
distant  Cape  of  Good  Hope  across  the 
Indian  Ocean. 

Chase  and  his  men  gloried  as  they 
left  the  Tali  Mahi  men  at  the  islands 
to  go  back  by  canoe  with  the  whale 
men.  In  the  sight  of  scores  on  scores 
of  sperm  whales  they  saw  that  ten 
thousand  dollar  bonus  and  many  a  rich 
trip  in  the  years  to  come.  Then  they 
bent  to  the  grim  race  home. 

TV /T  ANN  ED  with  more  hands  than 
iVJ.  they  needed  to  work  ship,  they 
had  plenty  of  time  to  speculate  about 
their  chances.  Many  felt  that  the  skip¬ 
per  had  made  a  mistake  in  heading  for 
Good  Hope  instead  of  the  Horn,  but 
others  contended  that  on  this  route  they 
would  have  the  advantage  of  racing 
Kenyon  without  his  knowledge  that  he 


102 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


was  still  in  a  race.  He  might  loiter 
for  days  at  the  various  islands,  fritter¬ 
ing  away  time  that  he  would  otherwise 
spend  in  driving  men  and  ship. 

Furthermore,  although  they  little 
suspected  it.  Burden  Chase,  young  as 
he  was,  already  knew  the  Atlantic  like 
his  own  Westport  backyard.  At  Good 
Hope  he  would  find,  at  this  time  of  the 
year,  not  only  favorable  winds  but  also 
favorable  currents.  With  them  to 
sweep  him  up  the  western  coast  of 
Africa  and  shove  him  far  westward 
across  the  Atlantic,  he  could  take  ad¬ 
vantage  of  trade  winds  to  hit  the  Gulf 
Stream  via  the  old  slaving  track  to  the 
Indies,  and  slide  up  past  Hatteras  to 
New  Bedford  t 

Slow  as  she  was,  the  old  ship  slogged 
steadily  forward.  If  the  Albatross  had 
dallied  at  all,  or  had  run  into  head 
winds,  they  might  still  have  a  chance 
to  beat  her  home. 

Hope  grew  from  a  tiny  tendril  to  a 
mighty  root  of  conviction.  Complete 
success  they  felt  sure,  was  theirs. 

They  made  junction  with  the  Gulf 
Stream  off  the  end  of  Florida,  and  ex¬ 
citement  ran  high  as  the  patched  sails 
of  another  whaler,  heading  up  from  the 
southward  to  catch  the  current,  were 
recognized  as  belonging  to  their  rival, 
mites  behind  and  hull  down  on  the 
horizon. 

But  the  elation  was  short  lived.  A 
hurricane,  heading  up  from  the  West 
Indies,  struck  with  terrific  force.  Chase 
saw  the  orange  sky  and  knew  by  all 
signs  what  was  coming,  but  he  carried 
sail  too  long  in  his  eagerness  to  hold 
his  lead.  A  roaring  gust  of  wind  struck 
them  a  warning  blow  to  drive  them 
deep.  They  came  up  from  that  and 
men  went  racing  to  strip  the  canvas 
from  her  as  captain  and  mates  bawled. 
But  they  had  waited  too  long.  Before 


the  men  could  get  aloft  a  second  gust 
struck  her  with  a  terrific  impact  and 
turnbuckles  ripped  loose,  masts  splin¬ 
tered,  and  canvas  billowed  and  flapped, 
while  ropes  twisted  and  flayed  about 
like  excited  snakes. 

Their  decks  cluttered,  their  canvas 
blown  overboard,  their  masts  standing 
bare  or  toppled  over  the  side  to  threaten 
to  smash  a  hole  in  the  hull  unless  cut 
away,  they  lay  at  the  mercy  of  that  hur¬ 
ricane.  Sea  after  sea  pooped  them. 
Men  had  to  hang  on  for  dear  life  while 
they  were  submerged,  to  hack  with 
ready  taxes  at  the  wreckage  during 
those  few  minutes  when  her  decks  were 
clear.  Mountainous  seas  rode  on  the 
tail  of  that  great  gust  of  wind,  threat¬ 
ening  to  drive  them  under  and  batter 
them  in  a  hopeless  roll. 

Bitter  as  the  dismasting  was  to  take, 
what  followed  was  far  worse.  Out  of 
the  blackness  and  fury  of  the  storm 
there  came  a  blinding  flash  of  light¬ 
ning,  Clearly  illumined  in  its  glare  was 
the  bare  poled  Albatross  scudding  rap¬ 
idly  homeward  past  them  in  the  gloom, 
driven  by  the  force  of  the  wind  on  her 
bare  masts  and  yards.  For  the  second 
time  in  the  epic  race  Amos  Kenyon’s 
caution  had  beaten  Chase’s  daring. 

Once  more  they  knew  that  they  had 
lost,  as  the  storm  dropped  almost  as 
quickly  as  it  had  risen. 

They  rerigged  the  ship  with  the  last 
of  their  spare  gear.  Deep  in  the  water, 
their  pumps  going  to  offset  the  leaks 
that  the  hurricane  had  developed,  they 
fought  grimly  homeward,  all  of  their 
elation  turned  to  bitterness.  Not  a 
man  aboard  but  would  have  given  any¬ 
thing  he  ever  hoped  to  own  to  beat  the 
rival  home. 

Burden  Chase  was  like  a  dazed  man, 
and  the  monotonous  days  that  followed 
found  him  staring,  staring  across  those 


WHALES'  WAY 


103 


intervening  miles  that  stretched  be¬ 
tween  him  and  the  woman  he  had 
failed. 

Montauk  light  did  not  cheer  him. 
Seaconnet  Point  off  the  port  bow 
meant  nothing.  All  that  he  could  see 
was  the  vision  of  that  bare  poled  bark 
driving  past  him,  and  a  companion  pic¬ 
ture  of  the  grinning  Kenyon  escorting 
Priscilla  Wing  to  the  altar. 

Suddenly  Trueman  let  out  a  bellow 
that  nearly  tumbled  the  lookout  from 
the  crow's  nest. 

"What’s  the  matter  with  you?”  de¬ 
manded  Chase  testily,  for  he  was  in  no 
humor  for  horse  play. 

"There’s  the  Albatross  standin*  in 
from  the  sea.  She’s  pitched  her  masts 
out  of  her  and  been  rerigged,  but  it’s 
the  Albatross  or  I’ll  eat  her,  barnacles, 
bilge,  and  all.  Look  alive  there,  men, 
there’s  hope  well  win  yet." 

IT  was  true.  The  other  bark  had 
profited  but  little  by  stripping  off 
her  canvas.  The  storm  had  driven  her 
far  off  shore,  tossed  her  until  stays 
snapped,  and  then  left  her  to  beat 
homeward  under  a  jury  rig.  Now-  they 
were  equidistant  from  New  Bedford. 

With  a  rising  tide  and  a  fair  wind, 
they  raced  toward  the  home  port.  Both 
masters  were  licensed  pilots  and  would 
not  need  to  delay  to  pick  one  up.  The 
Petrel,  having  used  every  spare  yard 
of  canvas  for  her  jury  rig,  now  blos¬ 
somed  with  improvised  studdingsails 
from  the  whaleboats.  But  the  rival 
ship  countered  with  similar  equipment. 

The  in-running  tide  at  Westport 
seized  the  Petrel  and  sucked  her  toward 
Horscneck  Beach,  where  she  might 
easily  go  aground.  Sailors  leaped  into 
the  rigging  with  more  oars.  Now 
their  own  blankets  began  to  blossom 
at  every  inch  where  a  vagrant  spill  of 


wind  threatened.  They  drew  rapidly 
along  the  white  beach,  free  at  last  from 
that  tide  rip. 

But  the  drag  of  the  tide  had  carried 
them  so  near  the  beach  that  the  scrub¬ 
by  little  island  known  as  Gooseberry 
Neck  lay  straight  ahead.  In  order  to 


"Tbe  bare  poled  Aibatroa*  scudding  rapidly 
Homeward-” 


round  that  they  must  wear  ship,  losing 
headway  and  precious  time. 

Captain  Chase  stared  grimly  at  the 
breakers  between  the  island  and  the 
shore.  He  had  often  negotiated  that 
channel  in  a  whaleboat  during  his  boy¬ 
hood  and  knew  just  how  deep  it  was. 

Men  leaped  to  stations.  Trueman  be¬ 
gan  to  think  he  had  gone  daft,  for  the 
skipper  had  the  wheel  in  his  powerful 
hands  and  was  holding  her  headed  for 
that  riot  of  churning  water  between  the 
little  island  and  the  mainland. 

"Don’t  run  us  ashore,”  screamed 
Trueman. 


■ 


104  GOLDEN  FLEECE 


Chase  answered  with  a  quiet  smile. 
Straight  into  the  welter  of  breaking 
waves  he  drove  his  ship  with  her  cargo 
of  oil  and  her  anxious  crew. 

Men  talked  for  years  afterward  of 
the  nerve  that  took.  Drawing  within 
six  inches  of  the  depth  of  that  short 
channel,  the  old  bark  might  easily 
deviate  three  or  four  fathoms  and  hang 
up  to  end  her  days  on  a  submerged  rock 
or  settling  deeper  and  deeper  in  cling¬ 
ing  sand  from  which  she  could  never 
be  saved.  Scarcely  two  hundred  yards 
long,  the  brcachway  was  a  treacherous 
stretch  with  danger  lurking  every  foot 
of  the  way. 

“We’ll  win  or  wreck  her,"  called 
Chase  as  a  wave  picked  them  up  and 
hurled  them  forward  as  the  treacher¬ 
ous  wind  died. 

That  loss  of  wind  seemed  certain 
to  be  fatal.  The  waves  came  snoring  in 
through  the  gap  from  each  end,  to  peak 
high  in  a  nasty  slap  in  the  middle. 
Straight  at  that  peak  the  old  bark  wal¬ 
lowed.  It  seemed  certain  that  she 
must  end  her  days  there  at  the  shal¬ 
lowest  spot. 

Then  they  struck  with  a  sickening 
grate  of  yielding  sand  along  the  old 
keel.  Had  there  been  any  wind  at  all 
as  they  ground  to  a  halt  that  jury  rig 
must  have  gone  by  the  board  with  a 
fresh  rending  of  stays  and  timber.  As 
it  was,  she  merely  settled  there  as  gen¬ 
tly  as  a  seagull  landing  in  the  harbor, 
her  canvas  still  slack. 

Then  two  big  waves  came  charging 
through  the  breach  to  converge  upon 
them.  At  the  same  time  a  squall  of 
wind  came  rustling  across  the  salt 
grass  of  the  island. 

The  waves  smacked  against  the  old 
hull,  lifted  it,  got  ready  to  shove  it 
toward  the  hungry  beach.  The  squall 
hit  the  improvised  sails  just  as  the  hull 


came  up  from  the  sand. 

Like  a  mad  thing  she  leaped,  going 
across  the  shallow  and  into  the  out- 
racing  sweep  of  water  that  fled  east¬ 
ward  to  meet  the  next  wave.  Luckily 
the  wind  held  long  enough  to  drive  her 
bluff  bow  through  three  staggering 
combers  in  succession  and  to  see  her 
through  the  gap  and  into  deep  water 
beyond. 

The  Kenyon  crew,  lashed  to  a  bitter 
tirade  by  their  master,  had  done  by 
order  what  the  Petrel  men  had  done 
voluntarily,  and  the  other  bark  now 
blossomed  with  as  indiscriminate  an 
array  of  shoddy  blankets,  torn  and 
patched  and  stained  with  salt  water,  as 
ever  met  mortal  view ! 

With  this  addition,  the  Kenyon  ves¬ 
sel  came  on  fast.  Burden  Chase  hugged 
points,  sheered  past  rocks  with  barely 
the  thickness  of  his  paint  between  hull 
and  granite,  risked  dragging  her  keel 
through  soft  harbor  mud  or  over  sand¬ 
bars  to  shorten  his  distance. 

On  and  on  came  the  bigger  appear¬ 
ing  Albatross.  Inch  by  inch  she  ate  up 
the  short  half  mile  of  lead  that  the  dar¬ 
ing  Chase  had  acquired.  Her  bowsprit 
was  abreast  of  the  Petrel's  poop  and 
the  two  captains  were  glaring  at  each 
other  with  glances  freighted  with  bit¬ 
ter  hatred. 

Gideon  Wing,  after  the  custom  of 
whaling  ship  owners,  had  been  in¬ 
formed  by  courier  when  the  two  ships 
were  sighted  off  shore.  With  his  pret¬ 
ty  daughter  along  to  watch  the  out¬ 
come,  her  face  alternately  red  and 
white  with  the  excitement,  he  was  pac¬ 
ing  his  wharf  as  they  came  creeping 
closer  on  the  dying  wind. 

The  bluff  bow  of  the  pursuing  craft 
had  gone  forward  of  the  leader’s  beam. 
Inch  by  bitter  inch  it  crept  up  and  up 
and  up  until,  just  abreast  of  the  Wing 


WHALES’  WAY 


wharf,  it  looked  as  tf  the  Albatross, 
coming  up  on  the  Petrel's  port,  had  out- 
maneuvered  Chase  and  would  beat 
him  to  the  wharf  by  blocking  his  way* 

Seeing  this,  Chase  grimly  started  to 
edge  his  rival  shoreward  with  a  daring 
maneuver  that  threatened  to  send  him 
smashing  against  the  heavy  spiles, 
white  the  outer  bark  slipped  past  and 
into  the  dock  beyond. 

But  Gideon  Wing  was  dancing 
about  excitedly  and  waving  his  gold 
headed  cane.  At  first  neither  of  the 
arriving  skippers  could  distinguish 
what  he  tried  to  show  by  gesticula¬ 
tions,  for  the  crowd  that  had  come 
down  to  see  the  end  of  the  race  was 
roaring  and  drowning  his  words. 

Then  they  both  saw  at  once.  The 
schooner  at  the  end  of  the  wharf  pre¬ 
vented  their  docking  there,  and  the  big 
new  hull  of  the  promised  flagship  of 
the  fleet  lay  in  the  slip  beyond,  block¬ 
ing  entrance  to  either  of  them. 

Then  the  roaring  of  the  crowd  ceased 
and  they  heard  Wing's  shrill  old  treble, 
“Heave  to  and  anchor!  There  ain’t 
room  to  dock.” 

Instantly  both  headed  up  into  the 
wind.  Reckless,  both  screamed  to  let 
go  anchors.  Like  twin  swans  rising 
on  the  water,  the  two  ships  lay,  sails 
flapping,  hulls  idly  rocking  in  the  har¬ 
bor  wash. 

But  that  was  all  that  was  idle 
aboard  either  of  them. 

"Get  my  gig  over,”  howled  Kenyon 
above  the  bellowed  orders  of  his  mate. 
“Snake  the  rags  off  her,  the  rest  of 
you.” 

But  there  was  no  roaring  of  orders 
aboard  the  Petrel.  Everybody  seemed 
to  know  and  to  anticipate  what  was  to 
be  done.  Men  accustomed  to  dropping 
boats  in  a  hurry  outdid  themselves. 
Skipper  and  rowers  were  striking  the 


105 

water  before  the  bark  had  ceased  her 
first  swing  at  the  anchor  chain. 

Kenyon’s  boat  struck  at  about  the 
same  instant  and  both  crews  pulled  like 
mad.  Although  Chase  had  lain  a  few 
fathoms  farther  off,  his  men  made  up 
the  difference  in  the  strength  of  their 
pull  as  they  fairly  lifted  the  boat  from 
the  water,  while  Kenyon  cursed  madly. 

Both  boats  smacked  against  the 
spiles  without  slowing.  Simultaneous¬ 
ly  they  spewed  their  captains  over  the 
caplog  to  the  very  feet  of  the  dancing 
Wing.  Both  men  reached  out  their 
right  hands  together  to  claim  the  honor 
of  the  first  shake. 

GIDEON  WING  chuckled  and 
danced  about  before  them,  both 
of  his  arms  behind  his  back,  his  set  of 
solid  gold  false  teeth  threatening  to 
jump  out  on  the  wharf.  His  twinkling 
little  eyes  surveyed  ships,  boats,  and 
masters  with  great  delight. 

"Who  won,  Priscy?”  he  asked,  bob¬ 
bing  his  head  toward  her.  "Come,  come, 
lass,  who’s  winner  here?” 

Before  she  could  answer,  the  crews 
of  both  ships  roared  with  a  mighty  bel¬ 
low,  "Cap’n  Chase  won  !  Give  the  prize 
to  Cap’n  Chase.” 

A  happy  blush  spread  over  the  girl’s 
white  neck  and  throat.  Her  eyes  sud¬ 
denly  danced  like  stars.  Her  lips  drew 
back  in  a  flashing  smile. 

"The  men  seem  to  have  answered  for 
me,”  she  said  happily. 

“Never  trust  the  word  of  forecas’le 
hands,”  sniffed  Wing,  his  old  head 
shaking.  "Now,  what  do  you  say,  men? 
It’s  a  dead  heat,  I’d  call  it.  Suppose  we 
settle  it  by  measurement?  The  slwp 
with  the  most  ile  aboard  is  winner.  Will 
that  do?” 

Amos  Kenyon  had  listened  with  a 
mounting  anger  to  the  roars  of  the  men 


106  GOLDEN 

and  the  words  of  the  girl.  Hulking  large 
in  his  wrath  beside  the  smaller  Chase, 
he  suddenly  east  all  caution  to  the  wind 
in  his  blind  fury. 

"I’ll  fight  him  for  it,  man  to  man,” 
he  snarled.  “There’s  been  a  deal  of  bad 
blood  between  the  nigger-lovin’  idiot 
and  me  from  start  to  finish.” 

"It  suits  me,”  snapped  Chase.  "It’ll 
take  a  lot  more  courage  to  stand  up  to 
me  than  it  did  to  murder  natives.  I’ll 
fight  you  and  be  glad  to,  winner  take 
all.  And  loser  to  knuckle.” 

“Suits  me,”  grinned  Wing,  nodding 
delightedly.  “A  cap’n’s  got  to  be  able 
to  fight  to  be  worth  his  salt.” 

Chase  held  up  a  hand.  The  crowd 
ceased  its  excited  jabbering. 

“There’s  one  thing  I’m  asking  you  to 
promise,  Mister  Wing.  If  I  win,  you'll 
let  me  determine  company  policy  in  the 
handling  of  crews  and  recruiting  of 
native  helpers.” 

Wing  looked  at  him  a  long  minute, 
pinching  his  loose  lower  lip  specu¬ 
latively. 

“Give  it  to  him.”  roared  somebody  on 
the  PetreL  “The  best  skipper  that  ever 
captained  a  whaler.” 

“Do,  father,”  urged  Miss  Priscilla,  her 
color  gone  again. 

“You  can  safely  promise”  grinned 
Kenyon,  stripping  off  his  shirt  to  bare 
his  great  shoulders.  “He  isn’t  win¬ 
ning.” 

“It’s  agreed,”  nodded  Wing. 

"I  ought  to  warn  you,  Amos,”  said 
Chase  softly,  “that  I  took  lessons  in 
boxing  from  an  Englishman  aboard  my 
father’s  ship.” 

"All  the  boxing  you  need  to  worry 
about  will  be  done  by  an  undertaker,” 
was  his  answer. 

“Harvey  Grinn’ll,  you  c’n  see  there’s 
fair  play,”  called  Wing,  singling  out  the 
biggest  man  at  hand. 


FLEECE 

The  giant  Grinnell  nodded  to  the  two 
contestants. 

“First  man  to  call  quits  or  fall  to  rise 
off  both  knees  after  the  count  of  ten 
from  the  instant  he  touches  the  wharf 
wilt  be  declared  loser.  Ready,  men?  Go  I” 

HE  STEPPED  between  them  with  a 
surprising  agility.  Then  the  two 
stood  surveying  each  other  for  a  full 
half  minute,  Chase  poised  and  seem¬ 
ingly  half  indifferent,  Kenyon  hulking 
and  lowering,  his  forehead  down  in  a 
scowl. 

All  about  them,  climbed  on  the  piled 
casks,  standing  in  rows  about  the  im¬ 
provised  ring,  craning,  the  crowd 
waited,  breathless  with  expectancy. 

At  least  Kenyon  was  circling.  Chase 
stood  half  crouched,  his  body  still  limp, 
his  manner  almost  listless. 

Not  one  of  those  watchers  knew 
enough  about  the  art  of  self  defense  as 
it  was  already  practised  in  sport-loving 
England  to  sense  that  the  listlcssness 
was  complete  relaxation.  While  Ken¬ 
yon  circled,  his  huge  muscles  tensed, 
he  was  needlessly  using  up  precious 
energy,  forcing  his  heart  and  lungs  to 
extra  exertion  to  carry  off  the  poisons 
of  spent  energy. 

Suddenly  Kenyon  leaped.  But  those 
half  lidded,  downcast  eyes  had  caught 
the  preliminary  stiffening  of  the  ankle 
for  the  lunge.  That  limp  body  seemed 
to  slump  aside  and  one  of  those  hanging 
arms  suddenly  lashed  out  like  a  sail 
snapped  in  a  gale.  But  there  was  noth¬ 
ing  of  the  sail’s  softness  in  the  crack  of 
those  hard  knuckles  against  Kenyon’s 
jaw.  The  charging  man  went  down 
with  a  crash,  landing  in  a  jarring  sit¬ 
ting  position  on  the  oil  soaked  wharf. 

“I’ll  get  you  for  that,”  he  gritted, 
instantly  bounding  to  his  feet  and  bor¬ 
ing  in  with  another  mad  rush. 


“There  w»  nothing  of  the  niPi  softness  to  the  crack  of  those  hard  knuckles  against  Kenyon's  jaw.” 


Again  that  lackadaisical  body  was 
miraculously  able  to  glide  to  safety  just 
out  of  reach  of  the  balled  fist  that  might 
have  scored  a  knockdown.  Again  an 
arm  snapped  out  quickly.  This  time  it 
was  an  open  hand  at  the  end  that 
chopped  with  the  stiff  edge  of  the  heel 
across  the  Adam’s  apple  of  the  attacker, 
snapping  his  head  back  and  almost 
knocking  him  down  again. 

Gasping  and  coughing,  Kenyon 
hailed  his  rushing  tactics  and  began  his 
circling  again. 

“Whyn’t  you  fight?”  jeered  a 
watcher.  “Swap  some  punches  like 
men.” 


“He  won't.  He’s  running  away,” 
complained  Kenyon,  seeking  to  gain  the 
sympathy  of  the  crowd. 

“He  on’y  seems  to  be,”  cackled  a 
toothless  old  fellow  who  seemed  to  be 
enjoying  proceedings  immensely.  “He’s 
already  knocked  you  back  so  far  you’re 
tired  out  walkin’  to  him.  Give  it  to 
him,  Qurdie.  We’re  all  with  you.” 

The  crowd  took  up  the  cry.  As 
champion  of  abused  seamen  anybody 
was  certain  to  be  popular  with  all  of 
that  crowd! 

But  the  calls  of  encouragement  for 
Chase  seemed  to  make  Kenyon  fiercer. 
He  came  in  slowly,  backing  his  smaller 


108 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


opponent  ruthlessty  into  a  corner 
where  filled  casks  barred  his  escape 
unless  he  went  into  those  balled  fists 
that  blocked  his  way. 

Suddenly  the  lithe  Chase  stepped 
forward  and  lashed  out  with  the  fury 
of  a  wild  cat.  Limp  muscles  jerked 
into  sudden  action.  The  slack  body 
became  a  set  of  magic  springs,  coiling 
and  uncoiling,  flailing  savagely,  ex¬ 
pertly. 

Recovering  his  surprise  only  after 
a  number  of  blows  had  almost  dropped 
him,  Kenyon  bellowed  again  at  this 
unwillingness  of  his  opponent  to  slug 
with  him  on  equal  terms.  His  huge 
fists  were  buried  in  a  rapid  one-two 
in  Chase's  middle. 

The  smaller  man  buckled  and  went 
down,  his  grunt  of  lost  wind  echoed 
in  the  sudden  stillness  by  a  gasp  from 
Miss  Priscilla. 

Kenyon  was  ready  to  leap  upon  him 
while  he  was  down,  but  Harvey  Grin- 
nell  seized  him  and  hurled  him  back, 
beginning  his  slow  count. 

At  five  Burden  Chase  lifted  an  agon¬ 
ized  face,  his  mouth  open,  his  col¬ 
lapsed  lungs  gasping  in  vain  for  fresh 
air.  At  seven  he  seemed  to  suck  in  a 
little  precious  oxygen.  At  eight  he 
caught  the  agonized  glance  of  Pris¬ 
cilla  Wing  and  knew  that  he  must 
get  to  his  feet  or  forever  carry  with 
him  the  memory  of  those  eyes  swim¬ 
ming  with  tears  of  entreaty. 

Nine  found  him  wheezing  and  half 
doubled  up,  but  on  his  feet.  The  crowd 
roared  with  delight,  Grinnell  danced 
out  of  the  way,  and  Kenyon  rushed 
again. 

Still  too  limp  from  the  loss  of  wind 
either  to  fight  or  slip  away,  Chase 
could  only  lean  against  the  bigger  man 
in  a  feeble  clinch  that  did  not  succeed 


in  taking  all  of  the  force  out  of  those 
short  jabs  at  the  body  but  did  lessen 
their  smashing  effect. 

Then  his  wind  was  back  and  they 
were  separated  again.  Once  more  they 
circled,  Chase  on  the  defensive,  wait¬ 
ing  in  the  center  of  the  improvised 
ring,  Kenyon  going  around  and  around 
like  a  lone  wolf  searching  for  a  flaw 
in  the  defense  of  a  winded  buck. 

Again  he  leaped.  Again  that  limp 
body  lanced  out  a  savage  fist.  This 
time  there  was  no  ducking  nor  side¬ 
stepping.  Chase  had  braced  himself 
in  advance,  crouched,  every  joint  in 
readiness.  At  an  angle  of  forty -five 
degrees  from  his  flexed  ankle  to  his 
rigid  head,  he  was  suddenly  ready  to 
take  that  charge  without  flinching. 

That  right  hand,  lashing  upward  to 
meet  the  ducked  head  in  a  lifting  sweep 
that  modern  boxing  fans  know  as  an 
uppercut,  was  backed  with  all  the  lift¬ 
ing  drive  of  that  crouched  body  and 
that  bent  forward  leg.  Ankle,  knee, 
hip,  and  torso  added  their  bit  to  the 
terrific  swing  of  wrist,  arm,  and  shoul¬ 
der.  The  smash  of  impact,  as  bare 
knuckles  cracked  into  yielding  fea¬ 
tures,  was  like  the  sound  of  a  heavy 
maul  hitting  true  on  a  water  soaked 
spile. 

There  was  no  question  about  count¬ 
ing  as  that  huge  body  halted,  straight¬ 
ened,  wavered,  and  then  crashed  limply 
forward  on  the  face  on  that  oily  plank¬ 
ing.  Neither  was  there  any  ques¬ 
tion  about  the  favorite  in  that  bellow¬ 
ing,  maniacal  mob  that  was  still  roar¬ 
ing  its  delight  when  a  bucket  of  water, 
hastily  scooped  from  the  harbor,  was 
doused  over  the  prostrate  figure. 

“QORRY  I  had  to  do  that  to  bring 
O  you  to  your  senses,"  said  Chase, 
offering  Kenyon  his  hand.  "But  I’d 


WHALES'  WAY 


be  proud  to  have  you  for  a  skipper  in 
the  Wing  fleet,  if  you  think  you  can 
stomach  my  policy." 

Kenyon  looked  around  groggily  at 
the  cheering  mob.  His  eyes  went  to 
his  own  crew  on  the  yards  of  his  bark, 
still  roaring  their  delight  at  his  down¬ 
fall.  For  an  instant  his  face  darkened. 
Then  he  shrugged  and  a  slow  grin 
spread  over  his  mashed  face. 

"I  guess  you  must  be  right,  Burden,” 
he  said  sheepishly.  “You  always  have 
been — somehow.  I  thought  this  once 
I  had  you.  I’d  be  proud  to  sail  under 
you  and  try  your  way  of  handling  men, 
I  guess  your  system  has  mine  licked.” 

The  smile  spread  across  his  swelling 
features.  His  big  hand  still  held 
Burden's,  and  his  arm  pumped. 

"And,  Burden,  if  the  sawbones  up 
ashore  can  patch  me  up  so  I'll  look  fit, 
I  wouldn't  mind  bein'  best  man  at  your 
weddin’,  if  you're  so  minded."  Then, 
as  Chase  looked  down  into  the  brown 
eyes  just  below  his  shoulder,  where 
the  girl’s  head  snuggled.  “I  reckon 
that's  the  only  way  I’ll  ever  be  best 
man,  by  God,  with  him  around.” 

Then  the  crowd  swarmed  around 
them,  cheering  anew,  seeking  to  con¬ 


109 

gratulate  the  happy  couple,  laughing, 
shouting,  hilarious  over  the  prospects 
of  a  big  wedding  and  future  prosperity 
for  all  concerned. 

Then  Burden  Chase’s  thumb  and 
forefinger  dipped  into  his  waistcoat 
pocket  to  bring  out  those  twin  pearls 
Leli  had  given  him. 

"My  engagement  present,”  he  whis¬ 
pered  into  an  ear  that  matched  their 
delicate  pink  luster.  "Just  as  soon  as 
I  can  have  them  made  into  a  pair  of 
ear-rings  for  you.  Then  my  share  of 
the  profits  of  the  voyage  and  of  the 
ten  thousand  we  get  for  discovering 
the  whales’  way  will  build  us  a  fine 
home  in  Dartmouth  or  Westport  with 
a  roof  walk  from  which  you  can  watch 
the  sea.” 

"But  not  until  we've  decided  to  leave 
the  sea.  Burden,”  she  smiled  up  at 
him,  "for  you're  not  leaving  me  be¬ 
hind.  I’m  off  with  you.  Father  is 
going  to  fit  the  Condor  up  so  that  1 
can  go.” 

In  their  happiness  they  so  far  forgot 
themselves  as  to  kiss,  openly,  in  the 
very  center  of  that  milling  mob,  which 
was  a  nine-day  wonder  in  conservative 
old  New  Bedford. 


COMING  Next  Month 

In  the  NOVEMBER  issue  of  GOLDEN  FLEECE,  Anthony  Rud 
will  present  his  fascinating  and  unusual  tale  of  the  Australian  Bush 
— Camel  Patrols — Blackfellows — War  Drums — Dancing  Skeletons 
— The  Scourge  of  Giant  Rabbits — and  ACTION  APLENTY. 

THE  STORY  OF 

The  Transcontinental  Fence  That  Saved  a  Nation — A 

thrilling  story  that  you  can't  afford  to  miss. 


by  ANTHONY  M.  RUD 

Illuitrated  by  JAMES  CARR 


ttrpHE  NORTHERN  CHEY- 
ENNES  cleaned  out  his  Pop, 
an'  druv  all  their  stock  into  the 
Big  Horns,"  said  Big  Jim  Haskins, 
gruffly  apologetic.  "So — well,  put  him 
on  the  payroll  at  thirty,  an’  see  that  he 
earns  it." 

Sam  Hardy,  the  lean  foreman  of  the 
V  Up  and  V  Down,  grunted  and  held 
out  a  calloused  paw. 

"Shake,  kid  "  he  boomed.  "Yo’re  a 
hoss  wrangler  now.  W'atcher  name, 
didja  say?  Joe — an'  Tm  the  Rosebud? 
Rosebud  Joe.  Waal,  yuh  may  fill  out, 
give  yuh  time,  but  right  now  yuh  look 
kinda  light  for  wrasslin’  Morgans.  Yuh 
know  a  Morgan  f’m  a  Percheron  an’  a 
barb?  Sure  yuh  do." 


"I’ve  set  bosses,  snatchin’  calves,  but 
I  don't  know  one  kind  fm  t’other,”  said 
the  hollow  eyed  kid,  "I  kin  learn, 
though.” 

"Sure  yuh  can,"  boomed  Sam  Hardy, 
chuckling  dryly  as  he  watched  the 
owner  of  the  horse  ranch  disappearing 
into  the  house.  Every  time  Big  Jim 
went  to  Miles  City,  or  even  over  to 
Roundup  on  the  Musselshell,  he 
brought  back  some  kind  of  a  pet  or 
curiosity.  "But  yuh  look  hungry. 
C’mon  an’  I’ll  give  yuh  a  knockdown 
to  Louie  Lee.  He’s  the  most  important 
jigger  'round  here.  He's  cook." 

"Thanks,”  said  the  kid  huskily.  “I 
aim  to— to  make  yuh  glad  yuh  hired 
me.  Sometime.” 


by  ANTHONY  M.  RUD 

Illustrated  by  JAMES  CARR 


i*mHE  NORTHERN  CHEY- 
ENNES  cleaned  ont  his  Pop, 
an1  druv  all  their  stock  into  the 
Big  Horns,"  said  Big  Jim  Haskins, 
gruffly  apologetic.  "So — well,  put  him 
on  the  payroll  at  thirty,  an*  see  that  he 
earns  it." 

Sam  Hardy,  the  lean  foreman  of  the 
V  Up  and  V  Down,  grunted  and  held 
out  a  calloused  paw. 

"Shake,  kid,”  he  boomed.  "Yo’re  a 
loss  wrangler  now.  Watcher  name, 
didja  say?  Joe— an'  fm  the  Rosebud? 
Rosebud  Joe.  Waal,  yuh  may  fill  out, 
give  yuh  time,  but  right  now  yuh  look 
kinds  light  for  wrassJin’  Morgans,  Yuh 
know  a  Morgan  fm  a  Pcrcheron  an'  a 
barb?  Sure  yuh  do.” 


"Fve  set  bosses,  snatch! o'  calves,  but 
I  don't  know  one  kind  fm  t’other,"  said 
the  hollow  eyed  kid.  "I  kin  learn, 
though." 

"Sure  yuh  can,”  boomed  Sam  Hardy, 
chuckling  dryly  as  he  watched  the 
owner  of  the  horse  ranch  disappearing 
into  the  house.  Every  lime  Big  Jim 
went  to  Miles  City,  or  even  over  to 
Roundup  on  the  Musselshell,  he 
brought  back  some  kind  of  a  pet  or 
Curiosity.  "But  yuh  look  hungry, 
C’mon  an'  Ill  give  yuh  a  knockdown 
to  Louie  Lee.  He’s  the  most  important 
jigger  ’round  here.  He's  cook." 

"Thanks,"  said  the  kid  huskily.  "I 
aim  to — to  make  yuh  glad  yuh  hired 
me.  Sometime." 


Joe1' 


"Now  he  heard  voice*.  There  il  ►*»,  the  »haJ* 
tow  hole  wJwrrf!  ihc  tfirrc  Indian*  had  hidden 
[  herrwclvci.  A  bLuck  topknot  raided.  Then  came 
a  grunt  of  tururtK.  lltatk,  beady  in  it 

red* brown  face  «wi veiled  toward  Joe.1* 


The  V  Up  and  V  Down  specialized  in 
Morgans* — and  Indian  trouble.  The 
Northern  Cheyennes  and  the  Crows 
were  supposed  to  be  subdued  and  living 
happily  on  their  reservations  to  the 
south.  But  now  and  then  raiding  bands 
of  them  came.  Then  there  was  some 
quick,  grim  work  with  Winchesters,  or 
else  a  band  of  valuable  horses  vanished 
never  to  be  seen  again. 

BESIDES  this  chronic  trouble,  there 
were  a  few  white  rustlers  operat¬ 
ing  in  Montana.  And  then  there  was 
Red  bird. 

Rcdbird  was  a  four  year  old  stallion, 
probably  a  cross  of  Morgan  and  Span¬ 
ish  barb,  He  was  a  reddish  glistening 
chestnut  in  color,  magnificent  in  his 
young  strength  and  sleekness  in  sum¬ 
mer;  shag gy  and  hirsute  in  winter.  He 


ran  a  harem  of  thirty-odd  mares,  and 
was  always  trumpeting  and  snorting 
and  luring  more  valuable  brood  mares 
away  from  the  ranches. 

Big  Jim  Haskins  had  a  standing  offer 
of  a  thousand  dollars  for  Rcdbird  alive, 
and  one  hundred  for  him  dead.  He  was 
a  menace,  and  cost  more  money  than 
wolves.  Just  the  same  no  waddy  in 
Montana  who  ever  had  set  eyes  on  him, 
coveted  the  hundred- 

Rosebud  Joe,  as  a  button,  fetched  and 
carried,  spread  hay  on  the  snow  in  win¬ 
ter,  and  often  accompanied  the  fore¬ 
man,  Sam  Hardy,  when  the  latter 
thought  he  might  need  a  messenger. 
The  two  of  them  were  riding  the  breaks 
beyond  Thunder  Butte  one  June  day, 
when  with  a  snort,  a  squealing  whinny 
and  a  thumping  of  hoofs  the  Redbird 
flew  past  them,  mane  and  tail  banner- 


111 


“Now  he  heard  voices.  There  it  was,  the  shal¬ 
low  hole  where  the  three  Indians  had  hidden 
themselves.  A  blade  topknot  raised.  Then  came 
a  grunt  of  surprise.  Black,  beady  eyes  in  a 
red-brown  face  swivelled  toward  Joe.” 


The  V  Up  and  V  Down  specialized  in 
Morgans— and  Indian  trouble.  The 
Northern  Cheyennes  and  the  Crows 
were  supposed  to  be  subdued  and  living 
happily  on  their  reservations  to  the 
south.  But  now  and  then  raiding  bands 
of  them  came.  Then  there  was  some 
quick,  grim  work  with  Winchesters,  or 
else  a  band  of  valuable  horses  vanished 
never  to  be  seen  again. 

BESIDES  this  chronic  trouble,  there 
were  a  few  white  rustlers  operat¬ 
ing  in  Montana.  And  then  there  was 
Redbird. 

Redbird  was  a  four  year  old  stallion, 
probably  a  cross  of  Morgan  and  Span¬ 
ish  barb.  He  was  a  reddish  glistening 
chestnut  in  color,  magnificent  in  his 
young  strength  and  sleekness  in  sum¬ 
mer;  shaggy  and  hirsute  in  winter.  He 


ran  a  harem  of  thirty-odd  mares,  and 
was  always  trumpeting  and  snorting 
and  luring  more  valuable  brood  mares 
away  from  the  ranches. 

Big  Jim  Haskins  had  a  standing  offer 
of  a  thousand  dollars  for  Redbird  alive, 
and  one  hundred  for  him  dead.  He  was 
a  menace,  and  cost  more  money  than 
wolves.  Just  the  same  no  waddy  in 
Montana  who  ever  had  set  eyes  on  him, 
coveted  the  hundred. 

Rosebud  Joe,  as  a  button,  fetched  and 
carried,  spread  hay  on  the  snow  in  win¬ 
ter,  and  often  accompanied  the  fore¬ 
man,  Sam  Hardy,  when  the  latter 
thought  he  might  need  a  messenger. 
The  two  of  them  were  riding  the  breaks 
beyond  Thunder  Butte  one  June  day, 
when  with  a  snort,  a  squealing  whinny 
and  a  thumping  of  hoofs  the  Redbird 
Hew  past  them,  mane  and  tail  banner- 
111 


112 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


ing  as  pennons  for  his  troop  of  mares. 
With  a  gasped  oath,  Sam  Hardy 
went  for  the  carbine  in  his  saddle  boot. 
But  with  a  choked  cry  the  button 
rammed  the  shoulder  of  his  mount  into 
Sam’s  pony,  spoiling  any  chance  to  fire. 

“I — kick  me  if  yuh  wanta,”  said 
Rosebud  Joe  then,  dropping  his  brown 
eyes  before  the  foreman’s  glare.  “He— 
he’s  too  damn  purty  to  kill.  He’s — ” 
“All  right,  kid,”  chuckled  Sam  rue¬ 
fully  after  a  moment.  “I’d  give  six 
months  pay  to  lay  a  rope  on  him,  my 
own  self.  Only — he  costs  the  ranch 
plenty.  Didja  see  them  three  brood 
mares  close  up  at  his  heels?  The  boss 
paid  plenty  for  them.” 

WITH  the  spring  of  that  year,  1898, 
wild  tales  had  come  from  the 
Klondike.  Gold.  Bonanza  Creek.  Can¬ 
dle,  Gold  lying  in  the  black  sand  just  a 
few  feet  underground.  And  three  riders 
from  the  V  Up  and  V  Down  left  to  try 
their  luck  in  the  northland.  Others 
were  restive,  thinking  how  long  they’d 
have  to  draw  forty  a  month  to  have 
a  stake,  when  they  could  pick  up  a 
fortune  in  a  single  summer  if  they 
were  lucky  hunting  gold. 

That  was  the  first  and  mildest  of  the 
misfortunes  which  came  to  the  horse 
range  that  year.  Without  saying  much 
of  anything,  the  United  States  Gov¬ 
ernment  combed  the  Indian  reserva¬ 
tions  for  choice  saddle  stock — and  the 
Indians  quietly  let  themselves  out  the 
back  doors  of  the  reservation  bound  for 
replenishments. 

Brushes  with  the  redskin  rustlers  be¬ 
came  frequent.  Rosebud  Joe,  now 
turned  eighteen,  was  given  a  rifle  and 
made  ride  night  guard  same  as  his 
elders.  And  the  elders  now  were  too 
few  in  number. 

There  came  a  night  when  more  than 


sixty  fine  Morgans  were  run  off.  Has¬ 
kins,  Hardy,  and  their  two  remaining 
seasoned  men  took  the  plain  trail  with 
Rosebud  Joe  trailing  along. 

The  trail  led  southwest.  It  all  hap¬ 
pened  so  suddenly  the  button  scarcely 
had  a  chance  to  know  it  was  an  ambush 
at  all.  From  willows  and  jackpine  came 
a  sudden  volley  of  black  powder  rifles — ■ 
oldtime  weapons,  but  deadly  enough  at 
eighty  yard  range. 

With  a  choked  scream  Pete  Yardley 
fell,  and  his  horse  galloped  straight 
ahead  into  the  group  of  redskin  rustlers. 
Haskins,  the  ranchman,  was  badly  hit 
in  the  thigh.  Sam  Hardy  was  cursing 
with  a  left  foot  from  which  a  big  toe 
was  hanging  with  shreds  of  boot. 

A  waddy  named  Gleason,  Poke  for 
short,  had  his  horse  felled  like  an  axed 
steer,  with  a  .50-110  slug  in  his  fore¬ 
head.  Poke  wrenched  a  leg  getting  clear 
as  the  animal  went  down. 

Rosebud  Joe,  making  his  horse  He 
down  while  he  fired  methodically  at  the 
moving  branches — getting  one  whoop 
of  pain  to  tell  of  a  hit — was  the  only  one 
unharmed. 

The  redskins  fled  with  their  stolen 
horses.  The  white  men  made  a  slow 
and  painful  way  back  to  the  ranch.  Big 
Jim  Haskins  was  suffering  extreme  ag¬ 
ony,  beads  of  sweat  coming  forth  on 
his  bronzed  forehead. 

“It’s  m’  hip,  boys,”  he  said  from  be¬ 
tween  set  teeth.  “Get  me  a  down  mat¬ 
tress  an’  lay  it  in  the  spring  wagon.  I 
got  to  get  me  to  Miles  City  an’  have 
Doc  Tindall  set  it  in  a  cast.  Busted  hips 
are  damn  bad  medicine.” 

He  waited  only  until  they  buried  Pete 
Yardley.  Then  Haskins  got  Poke  Glea¬ 
son  to  drive  the  spring  wagon. 

“I  hate  to  leave  yuh  with  a  bum  foot, 
Sam,”  Haskins  told  the  foreman,  hold¬ 
ing  out  a  hand.  “But  when  yo're  able, 


“ROSEBUD  JOE’ 


113 


gather  up  the  stock  an’  sell  it.  The  Gov¬ 
ernment  wants  hosses  now.  There’s 
some  talk  about  a  war  with  Spain,  over 
that  Maine  sinkin’. 

“Yuh  know  all  about  the  bank,  an’ 
they  know  you.  So  long.  It  mebbe 
will  be  six  months  or  more  till  I’m  back, 
but  I’m  countin’  on  yub.  Sain  Hardy.” 

“I'll  be  waitin’,  Jim,”  said  the  fore¬ 
man,  shaking  hands. 

“Would  yuh — shake  with  me,  too— 
Boss?”  asked  a  youthful  voice.  Rose¬ 
bud  Joe  was  there  beside  the  wagon,  hat 
off.  His  face  was  red,  but  he  was  sort 
of  wistful,  too.  Big  Jim  was  just  about 
the  whole  horizon  and  moon  and  stars 
to  Joe  in  those  days, 

“You  bet,”  said  Big  Jim,  holding  out 
his  immense  hand,  and  clasping  the 
thinner  but  more  calloused  paw  of  the 
boy.  “You  stick  with  the  old  ranch, 
and  with  Sam,  youngster.  “I’ll  make 
yuh  a  tophand  when  I  come  back!” 

WITH  the  Chinese  cook,  Rosebud 
Joe  started  then  to  run  the  big 
ranch.  Fortunately  it  was  summer. 
Also  fortunately  the  horse  herd  was 
smaller  than  it  had  been  for  years.  For 
misfortune  continued  to  mount.  Big 
Jim  had  promised  to  send  out  two  or 
three  hands  to  help  Sam  Hardy,  The 
owner  actually  paid  three  men,  bar 
loungers  at  Miles  City,  to  go  to  the 
ranch.  The  three  promptly  took  train 
for  Seattle,  hungry  for  a  look  at  the  land 
of  gold  far  north.  With  their  meager 
capital  and  more  meager  mental  equip¬ 
ment,  they  probably  got  nowhere,  but 
the  ranch  never  heard  of  them. 

And  Sam  Hardy  was  a  sick  man. 
Somehow  his  foot  had  developed  an 
infection,  in  spite  of  the  caustics  ap¬ 
plied  to  the  stump  of  toe.  The  flesh  of 
the  foot  swelled,  turned  red,  then  green 
and  black. 


Rosebud  Joe  swore  softly  in  horror 
the  first  time  he  saw  it  without  band¬ 
ages,  as  Sam  was  soaking  it  in  hot 
water. 

“You  gotta  go  to  a  doc,  too,  Sam!” 
breathed  the  button.  “C’mon,  I  wouldn’t 
waste  no  time.  That  looks  bad.  Yuh 
might  lose  a  foot  1” 

“The  ranch  can’t  run  itself,”  denied 
Sam  Hardy  doggedly. 

But  next  morning  his  whole  leg 
ached.  He  took  a  look  at  the  foot, 
groaned,  and  gave  up.  Ride  in  with 
me,  Joe,”  he  asked.  “I — I  cain’t  stand 
this  no  longer.  Yuh’ll  have  to  do  best 
yuh  can  with  the  hosses.  Drive  in  an* 
sell  what  yuh  can  get  together.  The 
rest  ’ll  go  to  the  Injuns,  I  guess." 

When  after  that  long  and  painful 
trip,  during  which  the  foreman  began 
to  talk  wildly  in  fever  delirium,  Rose¬ 
bud  Joe  found  he  would  have  to  leave 
the  foreman  in  the  cottage  hospital. 
Sam  Hardy  was  sure  to  lose  at  least  his 
foot.  Maybe  his  whole  leg — or  his  life. 
Shaken,  grim  faced,  but  resolutely  fac¬ 
ing  a  future  which  must  have  struck 
terror  into  even  his  soul  of  loyalty. 
Rosebud  Joe  rode  back  to  the  ranch 
which  six  months  before  had  employed 
seven  men  and  a  cook,  besides  himself. 

Now  even  the  Chinaman  had  taken 
his  departure.  Rosebud  Joe  was  alone, 
at  the  age  of  eighteen,  upon  a  ranch 
which  still  represented  an  investment 
of  more  than  fifty  thousand  dollars —  ‘ 
twenty-five  thousand  of  which  was  left 
in  valuable  brood  marcs  and  stallions. 

Left,  that  is,  if  the  Indians  or  Redbird 
had  made  no  new  depredations  in  his 
absence  1 

“I  gotta  do  m’  best — for  Big  Jim  an’ 
Sam,”  he  said  often  aloud  as  he  went 
about  the  manifold  duties.  That  was 
his  credo.  From  that  time  on  he  heard 
nothing  at  all  from  the  two  men.  But 


114 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


Joe  knew  he  was  not  likely  to  see  Sant 
again  ever;  and  the  big  boss  surely 
would  be  away  three  months  or  more. 
Something  had  to  be  done  at  once  with 
the  horse  herd  remnant,  or  it  would  van¬ 
ish. 

‘Til  gather  the  poorer  ’ns  fust,  an* 
sell  ’em.  Then  the  good  ones.  The 
broodies  an*  stallions  last  .  ,  .  iffen 
Big  Jim  ain’t  come  by  then  .  .  he 
decided. 

He  had  accompanied  Sam  Hardy 
once  to  the  market  at  Fort  Dickerson, 
where  army  buyers  haggled  and  bought 
— and  sometimes  split  prices  with  men 
who  could  be  bribed.  So  Rosebud  Joe 
knew  about  what  the  ordinary  grade  of 
Morgan  saddlers  should  bring.  Also  he 
expected  to  have  to  bargain  a  long  time 
when  he  offered  animals  for  sale. 

But  almost  unknown  to  this  horse 
range,  bugles  were  blowing.  Great 
ships  of  the  navy  were  plowing  the  deep, 
bound  for  Santiago  and  Manila  Bay. 
Transports  were  carrying  troops  to 
Cuba.  Rough  Riders  were  gathering 
under  the  beloved  Teddy.  Down  at 
Chickamauga  twenty  thousand  soldiers 
were  stricken  with  yellow  jack.  A  war 
was  on.  .  . 

SO  IT  was  that  when  two  weeks  later 
a  saddle  stained  and  tired  looking 
waddy  came  into  the  Fort  with  thirty- 
three  splendid,  well-fed  Morgans — the 
culls  they  were,  at  that — the  army  buy¬ 
ers  fairly  mobbed  Rosebud  Joe.  They 
asked  no  questions,  but  demanded  the 
horses.  The  rate  they  mentioned  made 
the  lad’s  brow  n  eyes  bulge.  But  he  had 
a  certain  duty  to  Big  Jim,  he  thought. 
He  refused  the  first  offer — and  got  one 
fifty  percent  higher. 

He  accepted  that,  took  the  paymas¬ 
ter’s  check,  and  went  to  the  bank  at 
Marysville.  With  complete  candor  he 


went  to  the  bank  president  and  told  his 
simple  story ;  how  this  money  belonged 
to  Big  Jim  Haskins,  and  there  would  be 
more.  How  could  he  keep  it  safe  for 
his  boss? 

Matt  Halleck  W3S  a  straight  shooter. 
As  soon  as  he  found  out  the  kid  w'as 
square,  he  helped.  He  fixed  up  the 
account  in  Big  Jim’s  name,  giving  the 
boy  a  hundred  dollars  for  grub,  out  of 
it.  Then  Matt  sat  down  and  wrote  a 
dry  sort  of  letter  to  Big  Jim  at  the 
hospital  in  Miles  City,  enclosing  the 
deposit  slip  and  saying  he  thought  Big 
Jim  had  considerable  trust  in  humanity 
to  load  this  responsibility  on  a  kid’s 
shoulders. 

Big  Jim  cursed  and  squirmed  in  his 
cast.  He  managed  to  write  a  long  letter 
of  directions  to  Rosebud  Joe  and  Sam 
Hardy,  whom  he  supposed  to  be  at  the 
ranch.  The  letter  never  was  delivered, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  Rosebud  Joe 
never  had  got  a  letter  in  his  life,  and 
did  not  think  to  go  to  a  post-office  and 
enquire  for  one  now. 

It  was  nearly  a  month  later  that  the 
young  waddy  rode  into  the  Fort  with 
his  next  herd  of  horses.  Then  it  was  he 
learned  of  the  death  by  blood  poisoning, 
of  Sam  Hardy.  There  was  nothing  to 
do  but  set  hts  jaw,  Sam  had  been  a 
friend.  Now  he  was  gone.  Rosebud  Joe 
sold  the  thirty-seven  horses  and  went 
back  for  more. 

One  more  trip  was  made  in  safety; 
and  then  there  were  just  three  extreme¬ 
ly  valuable  stallions,  and  fifteen  brood 
mares  left.  These  stallions  had  to  be 
hoppled ;  and  even  then,  with  their  flar¬ 
ing  nostrils  blood  red,  their  mating  and 
fighting  passions  aroused,  they  would 
be  extremely  troublesome  on  the  trail. 

It  took  the  kid  five  days  to  get  them 
V-stalled,  hoppled,  and  turned  into  the 
holding  corral.  Then  Rosebud  Joe 


forked  in  blucjoint  hay,  filled  the  water 
trough,  and  turned  in  for  twelve  hours 
sleep. 

He  didn’t  get  it.  Three  hours  after 
sundown  there  came  squealing  and 
snorting  from  the  corral.  Joe  came 
running  out  in  the  moonlight  with  his 
rifle.  He  saw  dark  figures — Indians. 
He  let  go  with  a  shot,  ran  to  the  corral, 
fired  again,  and  again — and  the  marau¬ 
ders  evidently  thought  they  had  the 
whole  ranch  after  them.  They  dashed 
for  their  horses  and  escaped.  Joe  was 
left  with  one  dark  huddle  on  the  ground, 
a  Crow  Indian  buck  who  now  had  a 
black,  round  eye  in  the  middle  of  his 
forehead.  It  was  the  first  man  of  any 
sort  Rosebud  Joe  had  killed. 

Joe  dug  a  shallow  grave.  Before 
throwing  back  the  din  on  top  of  the 
body,  he  got  the  ranch  Bible,  and 
gravely,  with  many  pauses  and  brow 
wrinklings  in  the  lantern  light,  he  read 


out  a  chapter  selected  at  random.  It 
happened  to  concern  the  casting  over¬ 
board  of  an  unpopular  fisherman  named 
Jonah,  and  vaguely  seemed  appropriate 
to  Joe. 

That  finished,  he  planed  a  pine  board 
which  he  nailed  to  a  stake  at  the  head 
of  the  grave.  Lettered  in  black  was  the 
terse  legend : 

HOSS  THIEF  PROBLY  CROW 

NEXT  morning  he  found  the  pole 
corral  had  been  opened  by  the  ma¬ 
rauders.  and  though  they  had  not  taken 
any  horses,  all  the  stock  had  wandered 
out.  The  stallions  were  still  hoppled,  so 
it  did  not  take  very  long  to  recapture 
them.  But  Joe  had  to  delay  his  start 
for  the  Fort  another  two  days. 

Three  trips  to  Dickerson  apparently 
had  finished  his  luck.  He  was  half  way 
on  the  fourth  and  last  trip  when  real 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


116 

trouble  caught  him.  The  horse  range 
lay  behind.  This  was  the  Broken  Butte 
country,  forty  miles  or  so  south  of  the 
Yellowstone  River  and  Forsythe,  and 
about  fifteen  miles  from  the  Fort.  The 
bed  of  Sundown  Creek  was  dry  when 
the  little  herd  passed.  Ahead  was  a 
downslant  of  country  where  jagged 
rocks  blistered  under  the  September 
sun. 

Here  Rosebud  Joe  had  been  forced  to 
drive  the  animals  down  a  boulder- 
strewn  hardpan  wash  which  once  had 
been  a  stage  road.  It  had  not  been  used 
for  years,  save  by  stray  riders.  It 
formed  a  defile  that  narrowed,  with 
rocks  on  both  sides.  It  was  only  three 
miles  long,  though,  and  below  the  coun¬ 
try  looked  green  with  the  knee-high 
buffalo  grass. 

Peering  ahead  Joe  caught  sight  of  a 
moving  figure.  An  Indian  on  horse¬ 
back!  The  Indian  vanished.  But  Joe 
frowned.  He  halted  the  thirsty  herd 
and  rode  a  little  way  forward.  Then  he 
saw  the  trouble  prepared — though  prob¬ 
ably  not  meant  for  him. 

Where  the  narrow  slant  of  defile  met 
the  floor  of  the  valley,  three  Indians 
had  rigged  up  a  corral  of  brush  and 
rawhide.  It  was  a  horse  trap.  Any 
wild  horses  or  tame  stock  coming  down 
the  defile  would  enter  the  corral.  The 
Indians,  lying  there  hidden  in  a  pit, 
would  yank  rawhide  ropes,  closing  the 
way  back.  Then  they  would  rope  and 
take  their  prizes  at  leisure,  since  even  a 
wild  horse  will  not  often  question  even 
as  flimsy  a  barrier  as  a  brush  hedge. 

With  considerable  trouble,  Joe 
headed  the  herd  back  uphill  the  way  he 
had  come.  But  he  did  not  go  very  far. 
Back  up  there  sounded  far  away 
whoops;  and  he  saw  tiny  black  dots 
moving.  Indians! 

In  a  few  moments  Joe  understood. 


and  his  heart  sank.  The  Indian  raiders, 
balked  at  the  V  Up  and  V  Down,  had 
started  one  of  their  two  or  three-day 
relay  hunts  of  wild  horses.  They  might 
even  have  Rcdbird  there.  They  would 
drive  the  band  now  into  the  defile,  and 
down  into  the  trap  prepared.  The  wild 
stallion  and  his  mares,  if  it  could  really 
be  Redbird,  would  be  so  winded,  tired 
out  and  thirsty,  that  they  all  would  be 
near  collapse.  The  Indians  would  be 
tired  out,  too,  though  not  so  greatly, 
since  they  knew  how  wild  horses  travel 
in  circles,  and  would  have  spelled  each 
other  in  relays.  This,  though,  was  the 
coup.  And  Rosebud  Joe  was  caught, 
with  the  valuable  Morgans,  between  the 
horse  drivers  and  the  three  Indians 
waiting  down  there  at  the  trap. 

Joe  dismounted,  snatching  out  his 
carbine — then  slowly  thrusting  it  back 
and  examining  his  single-action  Colt.  A 
sort  of  desperate  plan  to  save  the  horses 
had  sprung  into  his  mind.  But  only  the 
revolver  would  be  of  any  use.  And  if  he 
failed — well,  not  only  would  the  ranch 
and  Big  Jim  lose  these  most  valuable 
of  the  Morgans,  but  Rosebud  Joe  would 
lose  his  life. 

He  thought  of  that  all  right,  but  he 
was  running  as  he  thought.  Running 
for  a  fissure  in  the  rocks,  which  might 
let  him  climb  and  belly  around,  so  as 
to  take  the  three  Indians  below  some¬ 
what  by  surprise.  They  had  to  be  elim¬ 
inated  or  captured,  and  before  the  other 
part  of  the  raiding  band  got  down  there 
with  the  horses. 

Joe  hurried.  The  way  was  rough,  and 
for  a  few  moments  he  thought  it  barred 
by  a  vertical  cliff  face,  Then  he  saw  a 
way  around,  a  slide  of  rubble,  and  then 
the  floor  of  the  valley.  He  made  it, 
hurrying,  muttering  a  sort  of  half 
prayer  with  his  lips,  that  finding  the 
Morgans  there  in  the  defile  would  slow 


117 


“ROSEBUD  JOE*' 


up  the  oncoming  horse-drivers  a  few 
minutes. 

He  was  snaking  up  on  his  belly  now, 
the  six-shooter  out  in  front  as  he  rested 
weight  on  a  corded  wrist.  He  had  the 
keen  bowie  he  used  for  skinning, 
clasped  in  his  teeth.  After  the  alarm 
there  would  be  little  chance  to  reload 
the  revolver. 

Now  he  heard  voices.  There  it  was, 
the  shallow  hole  where  the  three  Indi¬ 
ans  had  hidden  themselves.  A  black 
topknot  raised.  Then  came  a  grunt  of 
surprise.  Black,  beady  eyes  in  a  red- 
brown  face  swivelled  toward  Joe.  A 
rifle  came  up,  as  the  jabbered  alarm 
brought  the  buck’s  two  companions 
into  sight. 

Joe  shot  and  scrambled  to  his  feet. 
His  side  stung  wasptshly,  as  the  black 
powder  bloomed  from  the  observation 
hole.  Joe  dodged  and  ran  forward.  He 
shot  down  now  as  two  men  diverged 
from  the  smoke,  rising  to  meet  him. 

One  yelled  and  shot.  Joe  staggered 
around,  with  a  stinging  there  high  at 
the  left  of  his  neck,  where  he  realized 
the  warm  red  flood  was  coming  from  a 
wound — probably  a  shattered  collar¬ 
bone,  since  his  left  arm  was  hard  to  use. 

He  shot  twice,  and  saw  the  two 
braves  fall  away.  One  kicked  and 
yowled,  then  choked  as  red  foam  slob¬ 
bered  on  his  mouth.  The  other  was 
still.  And  between  them  as  Joe  came 
right  on,  was  a  buck  kneeling.  His 
head  had  fallen  down  in  front,  though, 
and  there  was  a  wide  gray-red  blob  of 
brains  and  blood  exposed  to  the  air. 

Joe  had  no  idea  of  burial  service  this 
time.  He  dashed  ahead,  and  to  the  back 
of  the  corral  trap.  There  he  slashed 
the  sustaining  rawhides  with  his  bowie, 
till  a  section  twenty  feet  wide  fell 
down.  Then  he  crouched,  and  thumbed 
in  fresh  shells  fast,  into  the  Colt. 


Then  the  horses  came.  Three  of 
them,  pressed  madly  by  those  behind, 
stumbled  and  fell,  got  up  snorting,  fell 
again.  It  was  confusion,  but  into  it, 
barely  escaping  being  knocked  down 
and  trampled  a  dozen  times,  darted  Joe. 

He  had  glimpsed  the  trouble;  and 
despite  his  numb  left  arm  and  the  ach¬ 
ing  tear  in  his  side,  he  had  to  venture. 
Those  hoppled  stallions  1  He  slashed  at 
the  rawhide  hopples,  freed  them.  With 
the  other  horses,  at  least  thirty  of 
them  mares  and  bearing  the  burrs  and 
signs  of  range  freedom  on  their  coats, 
the  stallions  snorted  and  made  for  the 
gap  in  the  brush  corral. 

Now  angry  yells  from  fatigue  hoars¬ 
ened  redskins  told  that  Joe  himself  was 
seen.  A  rifle  cracked,  and  a  portion  of 
his  Stetson  brim  was  torn  away.  He 
fired  twice — and  then,  as  he  thought  the 
end  had  come,  he  saw  a  saddled  and 
bridle-trailing  pony  at  his  side.  His 
own  horse,  brought  with  the  tide  of 
cquinesl 

Abandoning  the  fight,  he  raced  for  the 
pony,  flung  himself  to  his  back,  leaned 
forward  to  shield  himself  and  gather 
the  reins,  and  then  dug  spurred  heels 
into  the  animal’s  flanks.  It  jumped 
ahead,  and  followed  the  Morgans  and 
the  wild  herd  through  the  break  in  the 
corral. 

The  Indians,  tired  to  the  marrow  by 
their  relay  chase,  disappointed,  and 
probably  shocked  by  sight  of  their  three 
dead  comrades,  did  not  even  pursue. 
Four  hours  later,  seeing  the  back  coun¬ 
try  free  of  dust  clouds,  Rosebud  Joe  de¬ 
tached  his  lariat  and  built  himself  a 
loop.  Up  there  ahead  was  a  horse  he 
had  been  watching  for  hours,  a  stagger¬ 
ing,  almost  collapsed  wild, stallion  taller 
than  the  Morgans.  A  horse  that 
breathed  loudly  through  blood-red  nos¬ 
trils,  and  whose  mane  and  tail  were 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


118 

limp  pennons  now  with  the  lather  of 
exhaustion. 

Joe  came  close,  and  tossed  his  loop 
over  Rcdbird,  prize  wild  horse  of  the 
Montana  range.  And  the  wild  stallion 
rolled  his  eyes,  but  did  not  fight  at  all. 

*  *  * 

THE  first  sifting  of  powder  snow  had 
come  down  in  the  night  from  the 
Big  Horns.  The  November  range  was 
iron  hard  with  frost.  The  spring  wagon 
which  had  brought  a  man  with  crutches 
from  the  railway  at  Forsythe,  rattled 
and  bounced  as  it  came  to  the  fence  and 
gate  of  the  V  Up  and  V  Down. 

The  halfbreed  hostler  who  drove,  got 
down  and  opened  the  gate.  Big  Jim 
drove  through,  then  waited,  though  his 
frowning  face  was  twitching  with 
gloom,  worry  and  impatience.  Ahead 
there,  through  the  bare  cottonwoods,  he 
could  see  the  huddle  of  buildings  of  his 
ranch.  Not  a  horse  in  sight.  Not  a  liv¬ 
ing  creature.  No  smoke  from  the 
ranch-house  or  cook  shack. 

"Well,  anyway,  they  ain't  burned,” 
he  said  half  aloud.  He  had  learned  of 
the  death  of  his  foreman,  and  expected 
nothing  at  all.  It  was  a  bitter  home¬ 
coming  for  the  ranchman.  He  had  writ¬ 
ten  to  Matt  Halleck,  the  banker,  asking 
the  latter  to  transfer  the  money  in  his 
savings  account  to  a  checking  account, 
but  the  banker  had  written  back  tersely, 
saying  the  bankbook  in  the  hands  of 
Rosebud  Joe,  was  necessary.  Big  Jim 
had  written  Rosebud  Joe  several  times, 
but  there  had  been  no  answer.  Matt 
Halleck,  evidently  assuming  that  the 
ranchman  knew  what  his  button  had 
been  doing,  had  said  nothing  more.  So 
Big  Jim  had  come  back  home  thinking 
himself  probably  dose  to  cleaned  out, 
happy  even  to  find  the  buildings  waiting 
him.  Of  course  he  could  never  make 


much  of  a  horse  ranch  of  this  again. 
Lucky  if  he  could  sell  out  to  somebody 
with  capital  to  start  a  herd. . . . 

“If  there  ain’t  a  soul  here,  yuh’II  have 
to  take  me  back  to  town.  So,  when  I 
git  down,  wait,”  Big  Jim  told  the  half- 
breed.  "I  can’t  ride  a  hoss  yet,  an*  I 
don't  care  about  bein’  here  on  crutches 
alone.” 

He  managed  to  get  down,  and  get  the 
crutches  under  his  arms.  Then  he 
started  for  the  porch.  A  sudden  shout 
of  gladness  and  welcome  made  him  turn 
toward  the  bunkhouse.  A  long-legged, 
broad-shouldered  man  in  overalls  that 
were  tattered  and  patched,  came  run¬ 
ning.  With  difficulty  Big  Jim  recog¬ 
nized  the  half-starved,  runty  youth  he 
had  left  here  with  Sam  Hardy  only  five 
months  earlier. 

“Boss !  Big  Jim !”  cried  Rosebud  Joe. 
His  benefactor  and  hero  had  come 
home.  “I’m  so  glad — my  Lord — I — I 
— ”  and  then  he  flushed  and  became  a 
little  embarrassed.  “I — ain’t  got  much, 
but  come  on  in.  I’ll  wrastle  some  grub. 
It’s  on'y  beans,  but — ” 

"Hm.  Livin’  on  beans,  eh?”  said  Big 
Jim.  "An1  yuh  stuck  here  all  alone? 
Not  anybody  a-tall?  Not  them  three 
men  I  sent?” 

“Nobody’s  been  here — not  sence  Sam 
— died,”  said  Joe,  and  helped  the  big 
man  with  the  crutches,  as  he  came  up 
the  three  stairs  to  the  porch. 

“It  needs  airin’,  I  guess,”  said  Joe. 
"I  been  livin’  in  the  bunkhouse.  But 
c’mon  in,  Boss.  Lordy,  I’m  glad  to  see 
yuh  1” 

“I’m  kinda  glad  to  be  bick — kinda,” 
said  Big  Jim.  "On’y,  I  ain’t  got  a 
thing  left  but  the  land  an’  buildings 
now,  kid.  Oh,  an'  the  money  yuh  got 
for  sellin’  them  bosses.  That  was  good, 
on’y — I  owe  plenty  of  that  back  to 
the  docs  an'  hospital  at  Miles  City.” 


"ROSEBUD  JOE” 


That  was  when  Joe,  a  little  flustered 
but  rather  prom!  just  the  same,  brought 

out  the  little  bankbook. 

"Yuli  got  this,  Boss,”  he  said.  "X 
didn't  take  out  none,  after  the  hundred 
Matt  Halleck  give  me — ’cept  I  did 
take  fifteen,  so’s  I  c’d  get  a  bag  of  oats 
an’  a  bar’I  of  apples.  I  had  to  have 
them,  uh,  f’r  a  kinda  personal  reason.” 

Big  Jim  stared  down  at  the  carried- 
forward  total  in  the  bankbook.  His 
eyes  widened.  They  started  to  bulge. 
The  figures  there  said  more  than  thirty- 
one  thousand  dollars.  And  he  had  fig¬ 
ured  all  his  stock,  even  if  sold  by  him¬ 
self,  to  have  been  worth  in  the  neighbor¬ 
hood  of  twenty-five  thousand! 

"Yuh — yuh  got  thisT"  he  managed  to 
whisper. 

"Yeah,  it’s  in  the  bank  in  yore  name. 
I  had  some  luck,  an*  got  some  wild 
bosses  too,  asides  the  Morgans.  The 
army  needed  ’em.  I  got  pretty  good 
prices.” 

"Hm.  Not  bad,”  said  Big  Jim  in  a 
voice  that  suddenly  was  hoarse.  He 
reached  shaking  fingers  inside  his  coat, 
and  brought  out  makm’s.  He  built  a 
quirly  with  difficulty,  and  lighted  it. 

"An*  yuh  ain’t  paid  yoreself  wages, 
ch?”  he  said  half  to  himself.  "Livin’  on 
apples  an’  a  hundred  dollars  in  beans 
.  .  .  hell!” 

“I— I  tell  yuh,  Big  Jim,”  said  Joe 
almost  breathlessly.  "I  was  hopin’ 
somp’n.  I  s’pose  he— he  b’longs  to  yuh, 
really,  but  I  was  hopin’  yuh’d  let  me 
keep  him,  ’stead  of  wages.  I — I  was 


119 

lucky,  an'  caught  the  Redbird,  an*  now 
I  got  him  gentled — ” 

‘‘Uh — yuh — yuh  caught  the  Redbird?” 
Big  Jim  almost  choked. 

But  Rosebud  Joe  had  run  to  the  door. 
Out  there  on  the  porch  he  put  two  fin¬ 
gers  to  his  mouth  and  screeched  a  pe¬ 
culiar  whistle.  From  out  back  of  the 
bunkhouse  a  tall,  proud  chestnut — a 
horse  curried  and  brushed  till  he  shone 
burnished  copper  in  the  sunshine — 
came  singlefooting.  He  whinnied  at 
sight  of  Joe,  and  came  straight  to  the 
railing.  He  was  so  tall  he  could  reach 
over  and  nose  right  into  Joe’s  overalls 
pocket.  He  got  the  apple  that  always 
waited  there  for  him,  and  tossed  his 
head  three  times  in  acknowledgment  as 
he  ate  it  with  relish. 

Big  Jim  had  clumped  to  the  doorway 
on  his  crutches.  He  was  swearing  ad¬ 
miration  and  wonderment. 

"Yeah,  he’s  yours  alt  right,  son,”  he 
almost  whispered.  "What  a  hoss  I  An’ 
— what  a  kid !”  He  turned  back  to  the 
table,  eyes  shining. 

"Hrmph.  Say,  Joe,”  he  said  gruffly, 
when  the  button  returned  smiling  hap¬ 
pily,  "go  out  an’  tell  that  halfbreed  to 
wait  f’r  us.*  You’ll  me  are  goin’  into 
town.  Iffen  he*Il  have  me,  I  got  myself 
a  new  pardner  on  the  V  Up  and  V 
Down — an’  Rosebud  Joe  has  got  him¬ 
self  a  last  name,  Haskins!” 

"1 — don’t  understand,”  puzzled  the  boy. 

"Well,  neminind  right  now.  I’m  goin’ 
to  get  a  lot  of  pleasure  teachin’  yuh  that 
in  the  years  to  come,  Joe !” 


WATCH  TOR  ANOTHER  THRILLING  EPISODE  IN 

THE  COASTS  OF  CHANCE 

The  unitiusl  ttriti  of  fascinating  ”lfM  tales  bf  that  creator  of  adventure  fiction, 

H.  BEDFORD- JONES 

Another  smashing  story  tn  this  great  series  will  appear  in  our 

NOVEMBER  ISSUE  OF  GOLDEN  FLEECE 


He  was  marc! led  between  a  guard 
of  riflemen  to  a  shallow  grave  be¬ 
side  a  hill*  •  *  *  Finally  the  com¬ 
manding  officer  lifted  his  sabre  and 
gave  the  command. 


by  HAL  G.  VERMES 


THAT  was  the  funny  thing  about 
grand  pop's  story.  It  had  a 
head  and  a  tail,  all  right ;  a 
beginning  and  an  end,  like  they  say. 
But  still  an  important  detail  was  miss¬ 
ing,  same  as  if  in  a  jig-saw  picture  puz¬ 
zle  of  Washington  crossing  the  Dela¬ 
ware  the  piece  with  the  general  on  it 
was  lost. 

This  being  Memorial  Day  was  what 
reminded  me  of  it;  it  being  a  day  of 
remembrance  of  our  soldiers  and  sail¬ 
ors,  All  the  churches  and  different 
societies  are  putting  new  clean  flags 


by  the  headstones  up  at  Pine  Hill.  But 
we  folks  chipped  in  and  got  a  special 
silk  flag  for  grandpop’s  grave;  even  the 
kids  saved  up  their  pennies  for  it.  Now 
he'll  have  a  pretty  flag  that  will  last  till 
snow  comes,  anyway;  that’s  what 
grandpop  always  used  to  say :  “I'll  last 
till  the  snow  comes.” 

He  did,  too;  he  hung  on  ’way  after 
Thanksgiving.  That  sure  was  going 
some,  seeing  that  he  was  past  eighty- 
seven.  He  got  kind  of  wobbly  there 
toward  the  last  but  he  wouldn’t  let  on. 
Of  course  he  had  a  cane,  been  carrying 
120 


THE  HERO 


121 


one  for  years;  but  he  always  said  the 
only  reason  he  kept  it  was  because 
all  the  swells  carried  them  when  he 
was  a  boy  and  he’d  got  the  habit  and 
couldn’t  quit. 

His  eyesight  wasn’t  so  good,  either, 
when  he  got  along  past  seventy- five. 
Naturally  dad  and  me  and  the  rest  of 
the  family  expected  it  in  a  man  of  his 
years;  but  he  wouldn’t  admit  it  for 
a  minute,  not  grandpop.  We  had  to 
be  careful  as  the  dickens  because  if  we 
showed  we  thought  he  wasn’t  as  spry 
as  he  used  to  be,  he’d  lay  about  him 
with  that  heavy  cane  of  his  and  any¬ 
body  or  anything  that  got  in  the  way 
was  sure  to  get  hurt. 

Take  for  instance  Roy,  that’s  my 
younger  boy,  he  used  to  play  a  trick 
on  his  great-grandpop  that  always  got 
a  smile  out  of  dad  or  me  because  it 
showed  up  the  way  grandpop  was  still 
trying  to  fool  us.  Roy  would  saunter 
along  the  porch  where  grandpop  was 
usually  sitting;  first  he'd  say  hello  to 
the  old  man  and  then  he'd  lean  against 
a  post  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  stare  down  the  road.  Well  sir,  he 
wouldn’t  never  do  that  for  long  before 
grandpop  would  speak  up  at  him  and 
say,  “What  arc  you  looking  at,  boy?” 
And  Roy  would  keep  staring  and  yell 
so  grandpop  could  hear:  “Oh,  I’m 
watching  a  frisky  mare  down  the  road 
a  piece.”  Grandpop  would  look  him¬ 
self  and  then  after  a  bit  Roy  would 
spring  it  on  him  easy  like  so’s  he 
wouldn’t  get  suspicious.  "Grandfer,” 
Roy,  would  say,  “can  you  see  the  horse 
all  right?”  And  grandpop  would 
straighten  up  and  answer,  "Why  cer¬ 
tainly,  boy;  it's  a  bay.’’ 

Of  course  there  wasn’t  no  horse 
there  at  all.  I  made  the  young  one  quit 
doing  it  after  a  while  because  a  boy 
has  got  to  learn  to  respect  his  elders; 


not  that  Roy  meant  any  harm.  And 
then  there  was  grandpop’s  hearing; 
you  had  to  shout  at  him  the  last  ten 
years  of  his  life,  but  you  had  to  pretend 
that  you  wasn’t.  And  whether  he 
heard  you  or  not,  he  always  give  some 
kind  of  an  answer. 

That  brings  me  to  what  I  was  get¬ 
ting  at:  his  memory.  Naturally  it 
wasn't  quite  so  good  after  he  was  get¬ 
ting  on  toward  eighty.  Not  that  I 
mean  to  say  he  was  like  a  school  boy 
who  can’t  never  remember  his  three 
R’s.  Grandpop  had  a  lot  of  things 
packed  in  his  head  right  up  until  the 
day  he  died.  But  speaking  from  my 
own  observation,  memory  is  a  peculiar 
thing;  when  we  get  on  in  years  we 
seem  to  remember  best  the  things  that 
are  most  important  and  forget  the  little 
ones  that  don’t  count.  And  here,  the 
way  I  see  it,  is  the  funny  part:  the  im¬ 
portant  things  we  remember  aren't  the 
ones  we  thought  was  important  when 
we  were  young.  We  get  a  new  valua¬ 
tion  sort  of,  on  life  and  living.  What 
we  thought  was  so  particular  impor¬ 
tant  when  we  were  young  don’t  seem 
to  amount  to  a  darn  when  we  get  older 
and  we  clean  forget  them ;  and  it’s  just 
the  other  way  about  with  the  other 
things;  people  and  places  and  ideas 
that  we  thought  we  had  forgotten  all 
about,  stir  up  in  our  memories  when  we 
get  as  old  as  grandpop  was,  and  turn 
out  to  be  the  most  important  things 
after  all. 

Leastways  that’s  the  way  it  appears 
to  me,  though  I  don’t  claim  to  be  a 
philosopher.  And  it’s  the  way  my 
son  Roy  felt  about  grandpop’s  favorite 
story.  He  figured  he  was  leaving  the 
most  important  part  of  it  out,  and  I 
did  too  until  what  dad  said  that  day 
got  me  to  thinking. 

Of  course  one  thing  grandpop  al- 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


122 

ways  remembered  because  he  was  in  it, 
was  the  American  Civil  War,  The 
War,  he  called  it,  like  that,  with  capital 
letters.  It  was  the  only  war  he  ever 
thought  about.  Whenever  I  would  be 
telling  my  boys  of  my  experiences  over 
in  France  in  1918,  grandpop  would 
always  pretend  that  he  wasn't  listen¬ 
ing.  And  if  I  ever  put  it  up  to  him 
direct  he’d  shrug  his  shoulders  and 
stroke  his  beard  and  say  just  as  though 
it  wasn’t  nothing  at  all:  "Yes,  I  heard 
something  about  you  boys  being  in  a 
little  fracas  over  there  in  Europe. 
What  did  it  amount  to — much?" 

I  kind  of  suspect,  thinking  of  it  now 
that  he’s  gone,  that  he  was  just  having 
his  little  joke  on  me,  but  he  never  let 
on.  I  never  did  pretend  to  know,  any¬ 
way,  just  what  went  on  in  his  head, 
bald  like  a  pumpkin  it  was,  though  he 
made  up  for  it  with  that  white  beard 
of  his  which  was  longer  than  Moses.’ 

But  before  I  get  on  to  grandpop's 
favorite  story  about  The  War  perhaps 
I  ought  to  say  something  about  our 
family.  We’re  roamers,  you  know; 
always  have  been,  though  now  we’re 
sort  of  settled  down  because  there's 
no  need  for  moving  about,  what  with 
railroads  everywhere  and  fast  ships 
and  airplanes.  But  grandpop  was  al¬ 
ways  on  the  move;  he  floated  barges 
down  the  Ohio  and  the  Mississippi 
after  The  War;  and  his  dad  before 
him  went  out  to  California  in  forty- 
nine.  My  dad’s  been  everywhere,  too, 
and  he  dragged  the  whole  lot  of  us 
every  place. 

I  talked  to  a  professor  out  at  Notre 
Dame  once  and  I  didn't  have  to  tell  him 
that  I  was  a  roamer  as  he  figured  it 
right  off  from  my  talk.  “Judging  from 
your  speech,"  says  he,  “I’d  say  you 
were  born  in  South  Carolina  of  New 
England  parentage,  got  your  education 


in  California,  and  then  went  to  live  in 
New  York.” 

Well,  that  professor  wasn’t  so  far 
wrong  at  that.  Seems  like  our  family 
never  come  from  any  place  and  never 
stayed  any  place  long.  By  the  way, 
did  I  tell  you  that  our  family  name  is 
Smith?  That's  a  regular  name  and 
we’re  just  regular  folk.  We’re  the  Jed 
Smiths;  likely  as  not  you've  heard  of 
us.  The  oldest  boy  in  our  families  has 
always  been  named  Jed;  grandpop’s 
name  was  Jed,  go's  my  dad’s,  and  it’s 
the  same  with  me;  we’re  the  Jed 
Smiths.  No  matter  where  you  live,  it 
wouldn’t  be  surprising  if  you’d  run 
across  one  of  us.  Like  I  explained, 
we’re  from  all  over. 

Grandpop,  dad  tells  me,  was  a  spry 
one  in  his  day  and  while  he  always 
could  see  the  funny  side  of  life,  there 
was  one  thing  that  riled  him.  You 
know  how  when  you  come  to  a  new 
town  folks  usually  greets  you  friendly 
like  by  saying:  “Where  you  from, 
stranger?”  Well,  that  used  to  get  un¬ 
der  grandpop’s  skin.  He'd  stare  down 
at  the  townsman  from  his  barge  or  a 
Conestoga  wagon — whichever  it  was — 
and  say  with  a  flicker  of  a  smile  in  his 
eye:  “I’m  from  the  United  States. 
What  the  heck  place  is  this?” 

But  dad,  who’s  a  more  mild-man¬ 
nered  man,  taught  me  to  put  it  dif¬ 
ferent.  We  were  sailing  off  the  east 
coast  of  Florida  when  I  was  a  kid  and 
dad  and  me  took  the  jolly-boat  one  day 
to  do  a  little  fishing.  But  we  was 
caught  in  some  bad  weather  and  got 
whipped  about  till  I  thought  we’d  sure 
seen  our  last  day.  The  jolly-boat  went 
over  and  we  hung  to  it  till  the  sun 
come  out  again.  Then  dad  climbed  up 
and  straddled  the  keel  and  dragged  me 
after  him.  It  wasn’t  till  nearly  sun- 


THE  HERO 


123 


down  when  we  come  in  sight  of  a  town 
and  some  folks  put  out  in  a  boat.  When 
they  got  to  us,  one  fellow  says  to  dad, 
"Howdy,  stranger,  where  you  -  all 
from?"  Dad  was  about  ready  to  pass 
out  from  helping  me  to  hold  on  all 
day  but  he  come  right  back  at  the 
townsman,  “What  place  is  this?"  dad 
asks  in  a  kind  of  snappy  way.  “Why,” 
says  the  fellow,  “this  is  Key  West.” 
“Well  then,”  says  dad,  “that’s  where 
we’re  from.” 

So  you  see  we’re  not  Easterners  or 
Westerners,  Southerners  nor  North¬ 
erners;  we’re  Americans.  It  took  me 
years  to  get  that  all  straight,  but  with 
grandpop  it  just  came  natural  like; 
his  memory  took  care  of  that.  Like  I 
said,  it  remembered  the  important 
things  and  plumb  forgot  all  the  rest, 

IT  WAS  grandpop’s  favorite  story 
and  he  told  it  every  chance  he  could 
get.  I  heard  it  so  many  times  that 
I  can  remember  how  he  used  to  polish 
it  up  here  and  there.  Grandpop  never 
could  seem  to  get  the  location  right. 
Sometimes  he  said  it  was  up  toward 
Orchard  Knob  north  of  Chattanooga 
and  another  time  he’d  say  it  happened 
outside  of  Cotd  Harbor;  and  then  again 
he’d  connect  it  up  with  Vicksburg  or 
Jackson.  But  of  course  dad  and  me 
never  said  anything  because  it  was 
grandpop’s  story  and  he  could  tell  it 
any  way  he  liked. 

I'll  never  forget  to  my  dying  day 
the  last  time  I  heard  him  tell  it.  That’s 
because  that  was  the  day  Roy  popped 
up  with  the  question  and  dad  made  the 
remark  that  set  me  to  thinking. 

“Well,”  grandpop  would  start  off, 
“he  was  too  young  to  have  a  beard; 
couldn’t  have  been  more  than  sixteen 
or  seventeen  at  the  most.  And  he 


didn't  wear  no  uniform  because,  you 
see,  he  was  a  scout.  The  only  time  I 
saw  him  in  uniform  was  in  Sixty-one, 
at  the  beginning  of  The  War;  then  lots 
of  the  Federal  troops  was  wearing  gray 
and  of  course  the  Confederate  soldiers 
was,  too.  But  after  the  first  battle 
of  Bull  Run  they  see  their  mistake  and 
the  Union  men  switched  to  blue. 

“But  this  fellow  Mordaunt,  he  never 
wore  a  uniform  after  that — just  civilian 
pants  and  a  hickory  shirt  or  whatever 
he  could  get  a  hold  on.  Like  1  said, 
he  was  a  scout  and  he  kept  carrying 
messages  from  one  side  of  the  lines  to 
the  other  till — till  the  time  I’m  going 
to  tell  you  about.” 

Right  there  in  his  story  grandpop 
would  get  up  from  his  chair  on  the 
porch  and  act  out  some  of  the  first 
battles  for  us:  Big  Bethel,  Bull  Run, 
and  Ball’s  Bluff.  He’d  wave  and  whip 
his  cane  around  so  fast  that  we  kids 
had  to  look  sharp  to  keep  from  getting 
hit.  Believe  me,  it  sure  was  exciting. 

“And  during  them  battles,"  grand¬ 
pop  would  continue  after  he  got  his 
breath.  “Mordaunt  was  running  back 
and  forth  from  one  side  of  the  Potomac 
to  the  other  carrying  messages  in  code. 
He  was  at  Gettysburg,  too,  and  at 
Hagerstown.  He  carried  his  life  in  his 
hands  every  minute  of  the  day  and 
night,  Mordaunt  did.  But  you’d  never 
know  it  to  look  at  him.  There  was  a 
look  in  his  eye  that  you  couldn’t  stare 
down  and  he  always  carried  his  shoul¬ 
ders  high. 

“He  was  running  messages  before 
the  battle  of  Fredericksburg  when  he 
got  word  that  someone  was  in  trouble 
at  home.  It  took  him  a  week  to  make 
it  what  with  him  losing  his  horse  when 
it  broke  a  leg  in  a  post  hole.  He  trav¬ 
eled  only  at  night  and  often  lost  his 


124 


GOLDEN  FLEECE 


way  in  the  dark.  Finally  he  made  it, 
though  he  hadn’t  had  nothing  to  eat 
and  was  half  dead. 

“But  it  was  too  late,  for  when  he 
got  home  the  soldiers  had  already  been 
there.  They’d  tore  up  the  house  from 
rooftree  to  cellar  and  found  what  they 
was  looking  for,  and  they  took  his 
mother  away.  She,  you  see,  was  a  spy. 
Mordaunt  had  done  all  he  could  to 
dissuade  her  but  she  had  said  that  they 
only  had  each  other,  seeing  as  how  his 
father  had  got  killed  at  Antietam,  and 
she  couldn't  let  her  boy  risk  his  life 
without  her  doing  her  share,  too. 

“Sitting  there  in  what  was  left  of 
their  home  and  his  mother  gone,  Mor¬ 
daunt  knew  what  had  happened  and 
he  broke  down  and  cried  as  if  his  heart 
would  break — after  all,  he  was  only  a 
boy. 

“It  had  been  over  a  year  and  a  half 
since  Fort  Sumter  was  fired  on  and 
everybody  had  learned  long  before  that 
war  was  a  mighty  serious  business. 
Mordaunt  knew  that  they  wouldn’t 
hold  out  no  mercy  for  his  mother  just 
because  she  was  a  woman ;  particularly 
because  she  was  a  proud  young  girl 
then  and  wouldn’t  never  give  in  and 
tell  where  her  son  was.  Mordaunt 
was  sure  of  that. 

“His  worst  fears  was  confirmed 
when  a  couple  of  soldiers  come  back 
to  the  ruined  house  to  look  for  food 
and  he  hid  and  overheard  them  talking 
about  his  mother  who,  they  said,  was 
going  to  be  shot.  The  soldiers  spoke 
of  how  she  wouldn’t  reveal  no  secrets 
and  how  she  refused  to  tell  where 
her  son  was  in  spite  of  all  their  threats. 

“But  that  was  small  comfort  to  the 
boy  who  was  hiding  there,  hungry, 
tired,  and  sick  at  the  thought  that 
his  own  mother  who  had  borne  him, 


nursed  him,  and  loved  him,  was  going 
to  die.” 

You  could  hear  the  wind  hushing 
through  the  wheat  when  grandpop  got 
to  that  part  of  his  story.  Though  he’d 
told  it  heaps  of  times  before,  we  hardly 
dared  breathe  and  we  kept  our  eyes 
tight  on  grandpop  while  he  refilled  his 
pipe  and  lit  it  up.  Funny,  but  seems 
he  always  did,  right  at  that  part;  I 
suppose  it  was  because  he’d  related 
the  story  to  us  so  often  that  he’d  got 
into  the  habit  of  going  on  with  it 
just  so. 

“Well,”  says  grandpop,  after  he’d 
gotten  a  good  draw  on  his  pipe,  “when 
it  got  dark  again  Mordaunt  made  him¬ 
self  coffee  out  of  some  parched  pota¬ 
toes  which  was  all  he  could  find  and 
then  he  went  out  back  of  the  house  and 
rolled  in  some  icy  mud  until  he  was 
covered  with  it,  his  hickory  shirt  and 
everything,  so  that  he  was  so  dirty 
and  black  that  he  couldn’t  be  seen  in 
the  dark.  And  he  took  a  black  piece 
of  cloth  and  tied  it  over  his  face,  cut¬ 
ting  slits  to  see  through,  because  he 
knew  there’s  nothing  shows  up  at  night 
like  a  white  beardless  face. 

“Then  he  slowly  wiggled  his  way 
into  the  camp  where  his  mother  was. 
He  knew  about  where  the  prison  tent 
would  be  from  what  he  overheard  the 
soldiers  say.  But  it  took  him  nearly 
all  night  to  worm  his  way  there  be¬ 
cause  he  was  mighty  careful  knowing 
that  he  mustn’t  fail. 

“It  was  just  a  few  hours  before 
dawn  when  he  finally  slipped  into  the 
tent  where  his  mother  was  and  pressed 
his  hand  over  her  mouth  so’s  she 
wouldn't  scream,  while  he  whispered 
his  name  in  her  ear.  There  was  a 
candle  flickering  in  the  tent  so’s  the 
guard  outside  could  see  any  movement 


THE  HERO 


■ 


from  the  shadows.  Mordaunt  had 
brought  pencil  and  paper  along  and 
he  slid  under  the  cot  and  slipped  up 
notes  to  his  mother  telling  her  just 
what  to  do.  He  took  off  his  clothes 
and  passed  them  up  to  her  and  she  put 
them  on  under  the  blankets  while  he 
slid  into  her  dress  and  squeezed  into 
her  shoes. 

"When  they'd  changed  their  clothes 
complete,  he  passed  her  a  scissors  he’d 
brought  along  and  after  braiding  her 
hair,  she  cut  it  off.  Pulling  his  cap 
down  over  her  shorn  head,  his  mother 
smiled  for  the  first  time ;  naturally  she 
thought  they  was  both  going  to  escape. 
But  Mordaunt  explained  to  her  in 
scribbles  that  they  couldn’t  do  that  be¬ 
cause  dawn  was  almost  on  them  and 
as  soon  as  the  guard  found  that  the 
tent  was  empty,  the  alarm  would  be 
raised  and  they’d  both  be  caught  be¬ 
fore  they  had  time  to  get  away. 

"  ‘You’re  a  soldier,  Mother,*  he  wrote 
in  his  last  note  to  her,  ‘and  you  must 
do  what’s  best  for  all.  I  must  stay 
here  disguised  as  you  and  fool  them 
to  the  very  end,  or  when  they  find  out 
you’ve  escaped  they’ll  never  rest  till 
you  are  caught  and  I’ll  only  have 
saved  you  to  die  again.  For  my  sake, 
Mother,  you  must  go  for  I  cannot  die 
bravely  unless  I  know  that  you  will 
be  free.’ 

"The  poor  mother  wanted  to  speak 
to  her  boy — to  say  one  last  word  of 
comfort — but  she  could  not  because 
it  would  have  meant  the  death  of  both 
of  them.  So  when  she  slipped  down 
to  the  floor  from  the  bed,  she  pressed 
him  to  her  breast  and  kissed  him  and 
wet  his  cheeks  with  her  tears — and 
then  she  crawled  away  in  the  night  to 
freedom. 

“When  she  was  gone,  Mordaunt 


125 

lay  upon  the  bed  in  her  clothes,  put 
her  bonnet  on  his  head  and  pinned 
her  Paisley  shawl  tightly  over  it  alL 
At  sun-up  the  guard  lifted  the  tent 
flap  and  he  came  out,  his  head  low  on 
his  breast.  He  was  marched  between 
a  guard  of  riflemen  to  a  shallow  grave 
beside  a  hill.  The  commanding  officer 
was  kind,  thinking  it  was  a  woman  and 
trembling  pale  because  he  was  forced 
to  shoot  her  as  a  spy.  He  asked  if 
there  was  anything  she  wished  to  say 
but  Mordaunt  still  hung  his  head  and 
was  silent.  Misunderstanding  the  offi¬ 
cer  wondered  how  a  daring  spy  at  the 
last  moment  could  be  so  afraid.  Finally 
he  lifted  his  sabre  and  gave  the  com¬ 
mand  and  the  soldiers  fired.  And  so 
it  was  that  Mordaunt  died  and  was 
buried  where  he  fell.” 

THAT  was  grandpop’s  favorite 
story  of  the  Civil  War.  And  no 
matter  how  frequent  we  heard  it,  we 
always  was  quiet  for  a  minute  after 
he  was  done  because  seems  like  there 
was  nothing  to  say.  But  that  last  time 
gTandpop  told  it,  my  son  Roy  was 
sitting  beside  me  and  he’d  never  heard 
it  before.  He’d  just  been  studying  up 
on  American  history  at  school  and 
when  grandpop  finished  Roy  asked  him 
a  question  right  off. 

"Grandfer,"  he  said,  “that’s  a  won¬ 
derful  story.  But  what  I  want  to  know 
is  whether  this  Mordaunt  was  a 
damned  Yank  or  a  Johnnie  Reb." 

"Why,  boy,”  grandpop  replied, 
scratching  his  bald  head.  “1*11  be  dad 
busted  if  I  ain’t  clean  forget  1” 

And  then  it  was  that  my  dad  pulled 
his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  spoke  up. 
“It  doesn’t  make  any  difference,”  he 
said  slow  and  thoughtful  like.  All 
that  matters  is  that  he  was  a  hero.” 


An  American  Mandarin 

by  ALLEN  P.  WESCOTT 


“An  filmfrfou#  man  from  beyond  ffcr  Meat, 
he  came  60 0Q  H  to  accomplish  great  deeds 
and  acquire  immortal  fame  by  shedding 
hi*  noble  blood.  Because  of  him  Sungkiang 
shall  he  a  happy  land  foe  a  thousand 
autumns ,n 

CHINA’S  Tai-ping  revolt,  or  “war 
of  the  Long-haired  Rebels"  broke 
out  in  1850.  Its  leader,  Hung- 
ts’fian,  self  styled  Tien-teh  (Celestial 
Virtue)  andTien-wang  (Heavenly  King) 
announced  himself  a  heaven-sent  re¬ 
former.  He  sought  to  dethrone  the 
Manchu  dynasty  and  to  found,  in  his 
own  person,  that  of  Tai-ping  or  Univer¬ 
sal  Peace,  During  fifteen  years  of  san¬ 
guinary  insurrection,  the  Tai-pings  all 
but  wrecked  the  weak  Manchu  dynasty. 
They  captured  various  important  cities 
including  Nanking.  By  1860  the  in¬ 
surrection  reached  formidable  propor¬ 
tions,  The  rebels  sought  to  obtain  the 
rich  coastal  provinces  about  Shanghai, 
openly  threatening  to  occupy  the  treaty 
ports.  The  rebellion  was  finally  crushed 
by  troops  of  various  nationalities  under 
General  Ward  and  Colonel  Gordon.  The 
story  of  “Chinese”  Gordon  is  well 
known  since  he  later  achieved  fame  in 
the  Sudan.  The  story  of  Ward  is  less 
widely  known. 

Frederick  Townsend  Ward  was  bom 
November’ 29, 1831,  at  Salem,  Mass.  His 
natural  capacity  for  leadership  became 
apparent  early.  As  a  boy  he  showed 
daring  in  handling  small  boats.  He 
spent  two  years  at  Norwich  University, 
acquiring  some  knowledge  of  military 
science  and  tactics.  His  father  was  a 
shipmaster,  and  upon  leaving  Norwich, 
young  Ward  went  to  sea  as  did  most 
men  from  new  England  coast  towns  in 


the  1840’s.  For  a  dozen  years  he  roamed 
far  and  wide.  On  the  Isthmus  of  Te¬ 
huantepec  he  first  put  into  practice  his 
military  training.  Later  he  campaigned 
in  Nicaragua  under  William  Walker, 
most  renowned  of  all  American  Soldiers 
of  Fortune.  In  the  Crimean  War, 
Ward  served  as  lieutenant  in  the  French 
army.  In  1859  he  appeared  in  Shang¬ 
hai,  taking  a  job  on  a  Yangtze  River 
steamer. 

In  1860  the  crisis  of  the  Tai-ping  re¬ 
bellion  was  reached.  Anglo-French  re¬ 
sistance  protected  Shanghai  itself,  but 
the  outlying  districts  were  at  the  mercy 
of  the  Tai-pings.  Ward  became  ac¬ 
quainted  with  an  influential  merchant 
named  Takee,  and  through  him,  pro¬ 
posed  that  for  $200,000  he  would  re¬ 
capture  and  garrison  the  city  of  Sung* 
kiang,  held  by  10,000  rebels.  Obtaining 
a  commission  from  the  Imperial  Gov¬ 
ernment  and  some  financial  support 
from  the  merchants,  Ward  set  about 
to  organize  an  army.  He  gathered  a 
hand  of  about  100  adventurous  spirits 
of  various  nationalities — sailors,  beach 
combers,  remnants  of  various  expedi¬ 
tions,  anyone  who  knew  anything  at 
all  of  arms.  These  he  made  officers  and 
they,  in  turn,  drilled  his  native  recruits. 
Ward  made  good  his  offer  to  take  Sung¬ 
kiang,  and  receiving  his  monetary  re¬ 
ward  was  made  a  mandarin  of  the 
fourth  class. 

Encouraged  by  success  at  Sungkiang, 
Ward  attacked  Tsingpu,  but  as  that 
city  was  strongly  defended,  Ward  was 
unable  to  effect  immediate  capture  and 
he  himself  was  wounded.  He  rested  his 
handful  of  troops  at  Sungkiang  while 
126 


AN  AMERICAN  MANDARIN 


he  set  about  raising  a  larger  army. 
Ward  received  official  support  but  en¬ 
countered  opposition  from  the  foreign 
consuls,  particularly  the  British,  who 
arrested  him.  Escaping  from  a  warship 
where  he  was  confined  he  went  ahead 
with  his  organizing.  In  due  time  he  had 
a  well-trained  and  diciplined  army  of 
three  regiments,  about  4,000  men.  With 
this  force  he  began  a  successful  cam¬ 
paign.  A  series  of  victories  followed 
including  Tsingpu,  where  Ward,  then 
brevet  brigadier-general,  was  cited 
for  gallantry  in  action.  With  the  cap¬ 
ture  of  Ningpo,  the  French  and  British 
military  authorities  ceased  regarding 
Ward  as  an  outlaw  adventurer,  recog¬ 
nized  his  great  military  genius,  and 
welcomed  his  aid.  With  his  co-opera¬ 
tion  Shanghai  was  saved  from  capture 
and  a  30-mile  radius  around  the  city 
cleared  of  rebels,  His  legion  inspired 
such  fear  in  the  Tai-pings  that  the 
title  of  ‘‘Ever  Victorious  Army"  was 
bestowed  upon  it.  Ward  was  made 
admiral-general  and  mandarin  of  the 
first  class.  Not  only  was  he  a  natural 
leader — tradition  has  it  that  he  was 
loved  by  his  soldiers  while  Gordon  was 
merely  respected — but  absolutely  fear¬ 
less.  In  battle  Ward  invariably  went 
unarmed  though  he  always  carried  a 
riding-whip  or  cane.  This  custom  fol¬ 
lowed  by  Gordon  has  since  become 
universal  in  the  British  service. 

In  an  assault  upon  Tziki,  Ward  was 
mortally  wounded.  He  died  the  fol¬ 
lowing  day,  September  21,  1862,  at 
Ningpo.  At  his  own  request  he  was 
buried  at  Sungkiang  near  the  temple 
of  Confucius,  and  close  to  the  drill- 
field  where  he  had  trained  the  "Ever 
Victorious  Army."  A  magnificent  state 
funeral  was  accorded  him  and  later  a 
memorial  temple  was  erected  in  his 
honor.  Here  grateful  Chinese  offered 


127 

sacrifices  to  his  spirit.  Ward  left  a 
young  widow,  Chang  Mei,  daughter 
of  Takee. 

Upon  Ward’s  death,  command  of  the 
legion  fell  to  Captain  Burgevine  who 
was  soon  dismissed  in  favor  of  Captain 
Holland.  Holland,  following  defeat  at 
Tai-Tsan,  went  the  way  of  Burgevine, 
Li  Hung  Chang,  governor-general  of 
Kiangsu,  applied  to  the  British  for 
a  commander  and  Charles  George  Gor¬ 
don  was  loaned.  Gordon,  at  the  head 
of  Ward’s  old  army,  was  successful 
almost  at  once.  In  July,  1864,  Nanking 
was  taken.  The  rebellion  was  com¬ 
pletely  stamped  out  the  following  year. 
While  Gordon  probably  deserved  all 
the  honors  he  received,  it  should  be 
remembered  that  he  succeeded  to  an 
already  efficient  fighting  machine,  with 
the  task  of  suppressing  the  rebellion 
well  advanced. 

Ward’s  daring  enterprise  justified 
itself  in  the  teeth  of  foreign  opposition 
and  Chinese  jealousy.  Other  Chinese 
armies  resented  the  superior  attitude 
of  Ward’s  native  soldiers.  Officials 
worried  over  costs  of  maintenance. 
Widespread  gossip  credited  Ward  with 
untoward  ambitions  though  his  ac¬ 
tions  revealed  none. 

Although  he  had  become  a  Chinese 
and  adopted  Chinese  customs,  Ward, 
shortly  before  his  death,  offered  his 
services  to  the  United  States.  He  gave 
10,000  taels  to  the  Union  cause,  and  had 
the  Trent  affair  resulted  in  war  with 
Great  Britain,  Ward  had  planned  to 
seize  the  British  warships  and  merchant 
vessels  in  Chinese  waters.  Just  as  the 
execution  at  Trujillo  of  his  old  chief 
William  Walker,  deprived  the  Con¬ 
federacy  of  a  great  general,  so  was 
Ward's  untimely  death  at  Ningpo  a 
great  loss  to  the  Union  army. 


- 


AN  OPEN  FORUM  FOR  OUR  READERS 


THE  EDITORS  of  "GOLDEN 
FLEECE”  will  appreciate  and  welcome 
letters  of  criticism  and  suggestions  from 
readers.  Although  this  magazine  is  primarily 
intended  to  feature  historical  adventure 
stories,  we  will  by  no  means  be  bound  to  any 
unbreakable  editorial  policy  in  this  respect. 

If  the  majority  of  readers  want  some  ad¬ 
venture  stories  of  more  modem  times  and 
possibly  some  laid  in  the  future,  they  shall 
have  them  or  any  other  type  of  story  that 
they  demand. 

We  think  we  have  a  good  idea  here,  and 
we  hope  you  like  it,  but  if  you  don't  do  not 
hesitate  to  say  so — because  we  can  take  it 
and  will  make  any  changes  necessary  for  the 
good  of  the  magazine.  In  short,  the  success 
of  the  magazine  depends  upon  your  reaction 
to  it,  and  we  want  you  to  have  a  voice  in  the 
type  of  stories  to  be  published  in  the  future. 

We  have  spared  no  expense  in  acquiring 
stories  of  a  better  type  than  are  usually  run 
in  pulp  magazines.  We  hope  you  like  them 
as  much  as  we  do. 


If,  in  reading  the  stories,  you  run  across 
glaring  errors  as  to  period,  locale  or  the  cus¬ 
toms  of  the  times — put  the  writer  on  the  spot  I 
Always  remember,  however,  that  the  writer 
should  be  allowed  some  "poetic  license”  and 
that  a  written  story,  like  some  you  probably 
tell  of  your  own  experiences,  should  never  be 
dulled  by  too  strict  adherence  to  the  truth, 
BUT  JUST  ONE  THING  MORE,  DEAR 
READERS: 

We  will  carefully  read  all  letters  you  send  in* 
We  will  from  time  to  time  print  in  this  de¬ 
partment  such  as  seem  of  general  interest 
and  helpfulness.  BUT  WE  POSITIVELY 
CANNOT  ENTER  INTO  ANY  CORRE¬ 
SPONDENCE  OR  ANSWER  ANY 
QUESTIONS,  You  and  the  writers  will  do 
the  sparring. 

SO  LET’S  HEAR  FROM  YOU.  AND 
MAY  YOU  HENCEFORTH  AND  HERE¬ 
AFTER  REMAIN  OUR  FAITHFUL 
READER,  ALWAYS  WELCOME  TO 
YOUR  SEAT  AT  THE  ROUND  TABLE. 

THE  EDITORS 


SUBSCRIPTION  ORDER 

SUN  PUBLICATIONS 
Circulation  Dept. 

S29  South  Clerk  Street,  Chicago,  Illinois  Date _ _ _ _ _ _ 1938 

Enclosed  find  remittance  of  $2.00  for  which  send  GOLDEN  FLEECE  for  one  year  beginning 

with - - - - ^  1938  number,  to  the  following  address: 

NAME _  _ _ _ 

Street  No,  or  R.F.D,  and  8oi  No, _ _ 

City  and  ,  - 


128 


Really  Live  I  Go  Places  and  Do  Things! 

.  .  .  .  Moto-Scoot  to  work/  for  sport,  for  economy 


Moto-Scooting  is  more  than  the  new  national  sport,  it's 
the  big  step  in  modern,  fast,  low  cost  transportation,  the 
answer  to  a  thousand  daily  problems.  With  your  own 
Moto-Scoot  you  can  really  live — and  save  money  doing 
it.  You  are  no  longer  dependent  on  friends,  crowded 
street  cars,  stuffy  busses,  infrequent  trains — you  go 
where  you  please,  stay  as  long  as  you  want — enjoy  a 
thrilling,  exhilarating,  refreshing  and  healthful  ride — go 
120  miles  on  a  gallon,  anywhere  in  the  U.  S.  for  $10.  No 
garage  expense,  no  parking  worries. 


GENUINE  Moto  -  Scoots 

are  widely  imitated  but  un¬ 
equalled  for  absolute  dependa^ 
bility,  They  com#  in  Models 
exactly  suited  to  every  need. 

PASSENGER  MODELS 
THE  SOLO  SPORTER 
SIDE  CAR  DUO 
TANDEM  DUO 
COMMERCIAL  MODELS 


Address 


MOTO-SCOOT  MFG.  CO. 
201  S+  Western  Ave.r 
Chicago,  U.  S.  A, 


Please  send  me  catalog  and  prices  on  the  new  1338 
Molo  Stools,  for 

ID  (2)  (3)  (4)  (5) 


Messenger  (roar 
Trunk)  Side  Car 
Delivery,  and  Spe 
eial  body  lobs  for 
ice  cream  delivery,, 
flowers,  «lc, 


50 

AND 

UP 


City  *  *  *  *  ,  . .  . . .  State 

The  name  of  live*1  dealer 

in  my  community  Is  . . . 


REVOLUTION  of  1950 


By 

STANLEY  G. 
WEINBAUM 


Could  such  things  happen  to  America  as  Stan¬ 
ley  G.  Weinbaum,  the  modern  Jules  Verne, 
imagines  in  this  tremendous  tale  oi  the  future 
of  America?  You  won’t  want  to  miss  this  super 
story  of  a  future  president  and  a  new  revolution. 


THE  GLAND  SUPERMAN 

One  of  Science  Fiction's  best  known  writers  presents  By 

a  thrilling  story  of  a  champion  heavyweight  lighter  ED  EARL 
made  invincible  by  an  amazing  gland  treatment.  REPP 


LOCKED  CITY 

By  Exiles  from  Earth  find  a  weird  Martian  Metropolis. 

THORNTON  buried  deep  beneath  the  surface  of  a  dead  planet, 
^YRE  and  find  U  mysteriously  deserted — and  locked! 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  OF  SPACE 

For  twenty  years  the  derelict  space  ship  drifted  between  the  planets 
until  Jan  Herrick,  doomed  castaway,  boards  it  to  save  his  life. 

By 

FREDERIC  ARNOLD 
RUMMER,  JR, 


AND  NUMEROUS 
OTHER  FEATURES 

A  full  color  feature  on  the  back 
cover.  Science  Quiz.  Discussions 
department.  Mysteries  of 
Science.  And  many  others,